


Jabberwock And Rain

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-04
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Trip and Malcolm have come down from the sky to stop the rain. (08/19/2002)





	1. Augury

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Challenge Fic Prize for Macx' posting the 2000th message on the list. She wanted something about prejudice, mistaken identity and misunderstanding. I think I ended up with a fairy tale from hell. This was originally posted to the list in 14 separate parts, which now follow as one single story. Much thanks and Reed Crunchies to my frabjuious beta, Squeaky.  


* * *

The Liege Lady Altheda stood upon the battlements of her castle, heedless of the lashing rain. It fell in gouts over the castle stones, cocooning the mountainside and the thick forest in the valley below. The rain was falling so fast, and there was so much of it, that it was almost impossible to even see the forest. It looked like nothing so much as a grey-green ocean, so far below her, swelling each moment as more and more water fell.

It was the first rainstorm Norvenda had endured in more than a century; the rain had come three days ago and the rivers were flooding the lowlands, threatening to drown the valley entirely. Occasionally lightening would explode across the sky, making the world glow eerily blue for a moment, before it receded again into the gloom of the endless rain. With the lightening came the war-drum sound of thunder, loud as if Istvall the Giant were back from the Hall of the Dead, stomping his feet upon the land. Altheda ignored the lightening: 'so within, so without' the Soothsayer had said; and since the dire news of this morning she could feel no light within her anymore, so that the intermittent light from the sky meant nothing. She did not fear the thunder. Istvall was a story, a hearthside tale to frighten children. There were other things in this world to fear, far worse things than the ghosts of giants. Real things.

"Milady?"

Altheda did not turn at the voice, but she did not dismiss the speaker either, though it was her right. "You should not be out here, Emma," Altheda said. She had to speak loudly to be heard above the rain. "You are still weak—your injuries cannot have healed totally is such little time."

"I am well enough, Milady," Emma said. Altheda heard her Sword Woman come closer, then felt the gentle but firm touch of Emma's large hand on the back of her neck. "It is you who concern me," Emma continued, "You have been out here far too long. Your robes are soaking; you may get the lungrot if you are not careful."

"I am not cold," Altheda said. She was not in truth, though her dress and outer robe had been drenched through within minutes of her coming out on the battlements. Her breath misted when she spoke, and she could see her fingers were red with chill, but she barely felt it. It had been so since the rains had come. Only Emma's presence brought any warmth. And tomorrow Emma would choose among the best of the remaining Siran and ride to the mountains. And she too would not come back.

"Still, Milady," Emma said, "it would not do to become ill. There are too many who are depending on you." She came a bit closer, and Altheda finally turned her head so she could see the woman's face. The red tattoo of her guild marred her cheek, but otherwise her broad, gentle face was deep, rich amber like the sky at twilight. Her hair fell in thick black curls—she had not rebound it since she had fallen from her horse—though it was now flattened and drab because of the rain. Her eyes were black as night, even now shining like stars. She was not a beauty, the Sira. Her face would never inspire courtly poems or young men to duel for her. But Altheda thought Emma was beautiful, she always had.

"They should not have to depend on me, Emma," Altheda said. "It should not have come to this." She sighed, breathing out mist, then turned back to the dim view of the forest, the mountains looming behind them. Another blaze of lightening split the sky, followed by the booming thunder. "Do you think, Emma," Altheda took a breath, feeling the water on her lips, touching her tongue, "do you think the Five Heroes hate us?"

Emma gave a quick snort of laughter, though there was no humour in it. "I know nothing of Gods, Milady," she said. "We have made the sacrifices, said the prayers, the priests have sung all the required songs and done the devotions...how could the Heroes not be satisfied?"

"And yet there is the rain," Altheda said, "and two days ago The Liege Lord and our best Siran rode out to the mountains; And today, when they were meant to return—" Altheda had to pause, breathe deeply before she could continue. "Today, none of them came back."

Emma shrugged, a movement just visible in the corner of Altheda's vision. "The Gods are fickle, Milady," Emma said, her voice bitter. "Perhaps they are unhappy with their creations; perhaps they are exceedingly happy and have just chosen this as a test; perhaps this is now how they wish to show their pleasure." She moved a bit closer to Altheda, now gently taking her wrist. "None of that matters. All that matters is that your people need you—and they need you hale and well, not gripped with fever and coughing until your lungs bleed." She gave her Liege Lady a sad smile. "I still outweigh you, Milady—I'll carry you if I must—"

Her smile abruptly fell when Altheda gasped, so loudly that it was almost a scream, easily audible even through the rain. Emma turned instantly to follow what she was seeing: A star, blazing with fire, hurtling from the sky as if thrown down by the Five Heroes themselves.

"Istvall's bones," Emma breathed. "What is that?"

"I don't know," Altheda said. She tracked the object with her eyes, as it seemed to clip the very top of Littlebrother Mountain, its low peak the only one visible just underneath the crushing mantle of clouds. It appeared that sparks were flying from the thing, as from heated metal after a blacksmith's blow. The object turned and headed in a narrow arc towards the forested valley. "It burns despite the rain..."

Emma looked at her, her black eyes growing wide. " _As it falls it blazes as the sun, unquenched by sea or rain..._ "

The object Dropped into the forest, felling trees like the footfall of a giant. It still burned visibly, only now was the fire seeming to retreat under the oppressive press of rainfall.

Altheda's eyes were wide as well, her mouth open in shock. "No," she said quietly, "No. No, it can't be." But what else could it be? How could it be anything else? For the first time in days, the first time since the rain, Altheda felt a tiny stirring of hope.

Emma pointed to the spot the burning object had fallen. It was easy to see from the castle, despite the clouds and rain, and Altheda knew it would be simple to find it. "They want us to find it," Altheda murmured aloud. Emma did not have to ask whom her Liege Lady meant.

"My horse," Altheda said to her Sword Woman. She was already turning from the low stone wall of the battlement. She wanted to run, but the stones were too slick with rain—her slippers, like her dress and robes, were not meant to be wet. Instead she settled for walking as quickly as she could. Emma held her firmly, protecting her from a fall.

Altheda broke away as soon as they had crossed to the large wooden door. She opened it and slipped inside, kicking her slippers off and grabbing two handfuls of her dress so she could run. Her robes dragged behind her, surely ruined now, but it wasn't important. "Have Tederick ready my horse!" She called to Emma over her shoulder. She stopped suddenly, turning. "Emma!" She called. The Sira stopped. She was already halfway down the corridor, heading for her own chambers. "Do you have new armour?" Altheda asked when Emma turned around.

Emma's smile was a little embarrassed. "Not yet, Milady. The breastplate is still...badly dented. From the fall."

Altheda nodded quickly, thinking. "Take Aethelstan's second set," she said decisively. "—But no more than the breastplate and gauntlets, so you'll be able to ride in the rain."

Emma was shaking her head, her expression slightly horrified. "Milady," she said, "I can't take your brother's armour!"

"He won't need it!" Altheda snapped. She had to stop, close her eyes and bite her tongue to control the shudder that passed through her, to keep from dropping to her knees and screaming in grief. When she opened her eyes again her voice was calm. "He can't use it, Emma," she said gently. "He would...he would want you to."

Emma hesitated only a moment, then sketched a quick bow. "As you wish,

Milady." She turned and hurried away.

Altheda ran the rest of the way down the corridor, bursting into her chambers with enough noise and force to startle her handmaidens. "Quickly," she said, while the four women were still doing their curtseys, "my armour—light, for horseback. And the rain cape." The two youngest bobbed, then rushed to her private armoury room. The older two—Odette and Mari—went to Altheda immediately to help her out of her waterlogged clothing.

Mari, who had been her handmaid since just after she was born, handed her robe to Odette, then gently cupped the side of her Lady's face with her calloused, amber-skinned hand. "Altheda," she said quietly—she was one of the few people allowed to use the Liege Lady's name—"you are not," she swallowed, clearly afraid, "you are not riding to the mountains, are you? At least, surely not yet?"

Altheda smiled as best she could to relieve the poor woman. "Not yet," she said, though that day might come soon enough if there was no cease of rain. "Emma and I have...seen a thing, falling into the forest. We are riding out to investigate."

"Falling?" Mari's expression was puzzled, her gnarled fingers pausing again as she worked to undo the buttons of Altheda's dress. "You mean, Milady, you and Sira Emma saw something fall from the _sky?_ "

"Yes," Altheda said. At Mari's look she added, "and it burned."

Mari stopped her work, put her cupped hands to her mouth. Her dark-purple eyes round as coins. Odette was standing transfixed, holding the soaking robe in her arms.

"Saint Brennan?" Mari asked. Her voice was thin with disbelief and hope, "was it Saint Brennan you saw? From the sky?"

"I do not know, Mari," Altheda said sombrely, "this is what Emma and I are going to find out."

Mari's eyes were shining. She took her Liege Lady's face in her hands and leaned forward, kissing her forehead like a blessing. "The Gods are merciful," she whispered, "the Heroes are with us still."

"We cannot know that," Altheda said, She gently took her handmaiden's hands from the sides of her face. "The Sira and I must go see."

"Of course," Mari said. She looked down, going back to her buttons. Altheda seethed quietly with impatience, but a Liege Lady did not deal with her own clothes. "Forgive me, Milady. It's just been so terrible..."

"I know," Altheda said kindly. "These last days have been terrible. For all of us."

* * *

"Great friggin' planet," Trip grumped, "love the weather."

"Now, now, Commander," Malcolm said dryly, "They can't all be like Risa."

"Thank God," Trip said. He stood, a little awkwardly—both he and Malcolm were wearing environmental suits, though without the helmets—and stumped forward so he could look out the canopy in front of the pilot's console. He squinted at the plastic. "How can you even see anything in this mess?"

"Barely," Malcolm said simply. "I'm just glad we have a very sophisticated navigation system."

The shuttle lurched as they hit yet another pocket of turbulence caused by the storm, and Trip braced himself against the canopy. "I really think we oughta' land and wait this out," Trip said, "or go back to Enterprise."

"It's been raining for three days," Malcolm reminded him, "and our scans indicated it's not letting up any time soon." He didn't take his eyes from the limited view for even a moment as he spoke. "It's not that dangerous, actually—so long as the lightening remain well away from us." "Oh, _that's_ comfortin'," Trip said, then he sighed. "Why can't we ever find Dilithium on friendly, warm planets?" He glared at Malcolm, though the lieutenant couldn't see him. "And since when did you become all casual about personal safety?"

"Well," Malcolm said, grinning, "in the scheme of things you're really not all that important."

"Oh, very funny," Trip said. "You'll be eatin' those words when I'm fixin' this stupid thing 'cause you flew us into a mountain or somthin'." He tried to cross his arms, but the environmental suit he was wearing wouldn't permit that range of movement. "Damn, I hate these things," he said.

"Me too," Malcolm agreed, "—and I've had to wear them a damn site more than you. But we'll probably be happy enough for them in a few minutes—those mountains are horrendously radioactive.

"Yep," Trip sighed, trying to stretch in the confining suit, "Dilithium mining in radiation and heavy rain: just another fabulous day in Starfleet."

Something hit them.

Trip, still standing, was thrown right to the back of the shuttle, impacting heavily against the shuttle doors. It took him a few painful moments to get his breath back; if it wasn't for the environmental suit he knew he would probably have broken some ribs. Suddenly it didn't seem so terrible to be wearing it after all. "What just happened?"

"I think it was a missile," Malcolm said grimly. He'd been tossed from the pilot's seat, and was clambering back into it as quickly as his environmental suit would allow. The small shuttle was tumbling crazily, only the straining gravity generators keeping the two occupants from being mashed to pulp against the walls.

"A missile? What the hell?" Trip struggled to get back to his feet, watching

Malcolm begin a desperate fight with the shuttle.

Malcolm ignored him, punching at the pilot's console. "Helm's not responding," he said, "can you help?"

Trip didn't answer, heading for the engine controls. He hoped he could put some life back into them before the shuttle took his joke seriously and actually hit any of the mountains. Where could a missile have come from? T'Pol's scans had said this was a pre-industrial civilization; they'd even planned their descent so the locals would think they were just a falling star. There hadn't been any indication of missiles, or even a tech level high enough to make them.

No time to worry about that now. No time to worry about what the locals might think of their shuttle, either. They were much too near those deadly mountain peaks-

Malcolm's brief cry made Trip turn, just in time to see the jagged stretch of rock rising in front of them. He'd never heard Malcolm sound afraid before, and that, even more than the certainty of impact, was what froze him in panic. He didn't even have time to wrap his mind around the thought they were both going to die...

The Shuttle pod's port side grazed the rock, throwing both men hard against the starboard wall. Trip's head bounced against the metal when he hit. For a moment he could only sit half-propped against the wall, too stunned to even remember what was happening. The shuttle was still falling, this time no one at the helm.

Malcolm had landed in a slack crumple of limbs, and Trip's fear for him shocked his brain back into motion. He rolled heavily onto his front, trying to crawl back towards the engine controls, ignoring the little voice in his head that insisted they were already dead—gravity just hadn't caught up to them yet. He'd just about pulled the first panel when the Shuttle crashed sidelong into the tree.

Trip didn't notice the noise of metal tearing, or the sudden sound of rushing air as the seams gave and the Shuttle was open to atmosphere. He wasn't aware of the feel of the rain.

He was aware, briefly, of the feeling of emptiness in his limbs as he was falling, the sound of the branches snapping wetly all around him, his desperate wishing for his helmet.

He was aware of the consuming pain in every part of his body when he hit the ground, how the world kept turning, turning madly as he continued to roll.

He tried to protect his head with his arms, but it seemed he couldn't move fast enough before he would hit something again. His head banged back and forth against the ring where the helmet was meant to attach to the suit; he was sick and dizzy and in too much pain to even think anymore, and still he was falling, falling, falling...

He was unconscious a few seconds before his body finally stopped.


	2. Siran

Altheda and Emma raced through the valley on horseback. The rain crashed around them.

The valley was beginning to flood in parts; the ground was all thick mud, and in some places the horses had to pick their way through water as high as their ankles. Altheda wondered how long the forest could survive this kind of deluge, or how the animals in it were faring. It was just another miserable question to turn her mind from, so instead she looked over her steed's huge shoulders, watching his feet splash through the water. She pulled her rain cape tighter around her neck; hearing the ceaseless patter of the rain on her hood, like drumbeats against her ears. She could barely see Emma ahead of her. Only her Sword Woman's rain cape, bright red like her guildmark, was truly visible. The cape, and the churning muscles of her horse Freja.

When Freja reared suddenly, Altheda was so taken by surprise that she almost ran right into Emma's horse. Only the quicker reaction of Sote saved them from the collision. Sote reared as well, heaving up on his powerful hind legs and turning so that he would be out of Freja's path when he landed. Altheda was thrown backwards. She managed to grab the saddle horn, but it was slick with rain. She felt her grip faltering even as Sote's forepaws landed. The shock rippling from his muscles through her was enough to pitch her onto the ground.

It was never pleasant, falling from a horse. Falling into a muddy pool added nothing more to recommend it. When Altheda felt her grip finally give way, she did her best to remember what the Riding Master had taught her—how to relax her body so she would be less likely to break a bone when she hit the ground.

She hit with a splash. The water was cold, but at least it helped break her fall.

"Milady! Are you all right?"

"Yes," Altheda said quickly. She smiled wryly as she pushed herself onto her knees. "It seems you are not the only one who has trouble staying on horses lately, Emma." At the Sira's glare she laughed.

Altheda got back to her feet, dismayed at how her now-sodden cape was twinned around her legs. She could feel the cold water seeping under her breastplate and suppressed a shiver. Now was not the time she would have chosen to feel the cold again, but there were much more important considerations than her own discomfort. She angrily undid the buckle at her neck, listening with satisfaction as her cape slid wetly off her shoulders and splashed back into the water. Emma had dismounted and was already at her side, but Altheda put up a hand to stop her when she saw the Sira fumbling with the buckle of her own rain cape. "Don't bother," she smiled, "I don't believe I could get any wetter than this."

Emma hesitated, then smiled back quickly before turning and walking ahead.

"Freja found something," she said, "—that's why she reared." Emma patted the horse's wet belly as she passed, Altheda wading along behind her. "Here," she said, kneeling in the waterlogged earth. She turned to Altheda, black eyes awed beneath her red hood. She did not try to touch what was lying there.

"It's armour," Altheda said with a certainty she did not feel. It was surely a helmet, though she had never seen the like. It was rich bronze, what part of it that was showing out of the mud, almost golden in color, with a faceplate that was tinted yet translucent as glass. Altheda frowned, reached forward to knock her knuckles against it despite Emma's gasp of warning. She looked at her Sword Woman, puzzled. "It feels like metal," she said, "here," she pulled her hand back, gesturing for the Sira to feel the material, "touch it. It's remarkable."

Emma looked at her like the rain may have addled her mind, but she reluctantly reached out and touched the faceplate with one finger. She blinked in surprise, then tapped it, her mouth slowly forming into a grin.

The two women heard a sound just ahead of them. Altheda jumped, scrambling to her feet. Emma was already up, drawing her sword.

The noise came again: a groan, like someone in pain. Emma and Altheda looked at each other. "That's a man's voice," Emma said. She held her sword out, walking carefully towards the sound.

For a moment—just a moment—Altheda could almost believe it was her brother's voice; that Aethelstan was not dead after all. It was impossible, she knew it was, but still she could not keep the ache from her heart for hoping. She followed the Sira with her hand on her own sword. She glanced back at the helmet, then quickly stooped and took it. It was surprisingly light, despite its size and the mud clinging to it. Perhaps it would help Emma when she went to the mountains.

Emma had gone a ways ahead, and Altheda passed even stranger things as she hurried to find her: twisted pieces of steel, or what surly must have been steel save that it was white. Strange, shining silver boxes, the contents of which Altheda could barely imagine.

She saw Emma by the red of her cape, and was grateful her Sword Woman took her guild so seriously. The Sira was standing transfixed, sword still drawn but unmoving. It was as if the woman had been turned to stone.

"What is it?" Altheda asked. She was afraid enough that she had to force herself to speak, but a Liege Lady did not show fear any more than she did up her own buttons. She strode forward as bravely as she could, stopping right next to her Sword Woman.

"Is it a God?" Emma asked. Altheda had never heard such uncertainty in her voice. "Is that one of the Heroes, there?"

But a Hero would not be struggling, trying to find purchase for his arms and legs in the mud and the rain. A God would not keep collapsing back to his elbows, his head dangerously close to slipping under the rising water. One of the Five would not bleed—if that were truly blood: the red that kept welling up on his forehead only to be swept away by the rain.

Still, Altheda could not speak, could not move. She glanced down at the strange helmet in her hand; the bronze was the same as his armour. "Saint Brennan?" She breathed. It wasn't possible. A story, no more real than Istvall. And yet, and yet...

He groaned again, a short sound of exhaustion and pain. It cut through the awe in her mind, and Altheda surged forward, letting the helmet fall from her hand to splash again on the soaked earth. She dropped to her knees beside the armoured figure, hearing Emma come up behind her. She went to touch him, hesitated. "Siran?" She asked, "Siran? Can I help?"

He turned his head slowly to look at her. As he did so he slipped again, his left arm dropping to the elbow in the water. He was obviously grievously wounded, perhaps dying; she had never seen skin so pale, like he had no blood left in him. She could only imagine that those were bruises marring his face. She had never seen that colour, but the wounds looked the same.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, unfocussed. He blinked several times as if he were having trouble seeing her. Maybe he was blind. His eyes—there was something wrong with his eyes...

He opened his mouth, trying to move his lips as if to speak. Slowly, as if pressed down by the rain—or weighted by that strange armour?—His right hand lifted out of the water, reaching to touch her face. Altheda stayed completely still, eyes wide. His hand, so abnormally pale, had one more finger than her-own. She flinched back at the same time his strength seemed to fail him. His right arm crashed back into the water, and Altheda watched in numb horror as his eyes began to roll back. She reflexively grabbed for him when he fell, holding the metal ring of his armour. "Emma!" She called over her shoulder, "help me!" But her Sword Woman was already right there, lifting the stranger with ease. "He's a man!" She said breathlessly to the Sira's anxious face, "He is not like us, but he must be a man!"

Emma examined his face as she held him. His hair seemed strangely light, despite being drenched. The blood, red as Emma's guildmark, continued to ooze from his head. She turned to her Liege Lady. "Is he the Saint?" She asked, "Has Brennan returned?"

"Later," Altheda said firmly, "we can ask him later. He's wounded—come down from the sky. He needs our help."

Emma nodded mutely, then shifted the stranger so she was carrying him along her shoulders. Altheda watched her walking with concern: the stranger was just heavy enough to be a danger to Emma on such treacherous ground. But Emma was stronger than Altheda, and in any case would not have accepted an offer of help. Instead Altheda picked up the helmet again, shaking as much as she could of the mud out as she returned to Sote. She wondered briefly where the man's gauntlets were as she tied it to her saddle.

Sote regarded her with stoic patience, and she reached up as far as she could to pat him on the shoulder. "Thank you, my fine steed," she said, "for your quick action that saved us both." She knew he could not understand, but still the small grunt he gave her was gratifying. He lifted a foreleg so Altheda could use it as a step when she climbed onto his back.

Emma had taken off her rain cape and had wrapped the stranger in it, though Altheda could hardly see him needing it with his armour. She watched as the Sira gently lifted him across Freja's shoulders, then kept him steady with one hand while she stepped on Freja's leg to mount. When she was well seated in her saddle she held the man against her, gripping the reins with only one hand. Altheda waited until Emma had started Freja running back towards the castle before she gave Sote his head—it wouldn't do to be too close to her Sword Woman, in case Freja was startled again.

As she rode she glanced back at the mountains, barely visible through the rain, but still looming, still taunting her with their promise of death. She had seen the star hit upon the rocks as it fell; this stranger had come through the mountains to reach them. She wondered if he would even survive.


	3. Waking

Odette came silently into the chamber, her head and shoulders bent as if she were afraid to walk. She glanced fearfully at the still form on the bed as she went, each time hesitating; Altheda was sure that if the stranger so much as twitched the poor woman would turn tail and run.

The handmaid finally reached the window corner where Altheda was sitting. It was well into day now, though it was still grey as twilight, casting long, sombre shadows across the room. Outside the rain continued falling, dark and miserable and cold. Odette knelt by the chair, leaned towards Altheda so she could speak directly into her ear.

"Milady," she said, voice barely above a strained whisper. She glanced quickly at the invalid, as if her tiny voice might wake him and bring forth the wrath of a Saint. "I have been asked to fetch you something to eat—you did not break your fast this morn, and it is now past noon."

Altheda looked at her and smiled. "Thank you, Odette," she said in a quiet but normal voice. "I had forgotten. Some bread and tea would be nice, if our cook can spare them."

Odette looked momentarily disappointed, as if Altheda had just refused a feast, but she smiled and bobbed her head, then rose a bit awkwardly and hurried out of the room. Altheda smiled after her, then turned her attention to the man laying on the bed.

They'd brought him to her brother's chamber; put him in the bed Aethelstan had last slept in but three days before. Fire-heated bricks had been placed at his feet and under the covers to warm him. Altheda herself had taken a cloth and dried his hair, marvelling at the odd softness of the texture.

He was as tall as her brother, but otherwise so different, with such pale skin and eyes. It hurt to see this stranger in her brother's bed, but Altheda had found no other choice. The castle was not large, and she could not see putting up a Saint—if he truly were a Saint—in one of the servant's rooms. Even the guest quarters were not fine enough. And her parents' chamber had been sealed off years before.

Divesting him of his armour had been difficult: there were no straps or buckles, no fasteners along the seams. Finally she had called in the Chief Armourer, fearing that it might require his metal shears to free the man. But the Armourer, apparently by luck, had been able to find the clasps, and bit-by-bit they'd been able to take the bronze suit off him. The Armourer had gladly taken the dented bronze plate back with him, saying he would clean and polish it until it was as good as new. Privately, Altheda wondered if she might have to persuade the man to return it once he was finished.

The silver undergarment had been even stranger, covering him from neck to ankle, silken in quality but apparently as hard as iron. Altheda had expected it to be ripped, or at least sweat and bloodstained after such an ordeal, but it seemed almost as new. At least it had been much easier to remove it, and it was now with the washerwoman, who had promised she would do her best to clean it. Altheda had taken a moment just to touch the garment, quietly delighting in the smoothness of the material. How she would love to have this under her own armour! It would be so comfortable, she was certain. But she had no idea if her tailors could even work with such material, and in any case he would no doubt be wanting it back.

She had watched and assisted quietly when the Herb Wife had come, standing silently by the old woman's side while she checked his body for injuries: visible and internal and of the brain. She had also helped to clean and dress his wounds. "Either he didn't fall so far," the old woman had said to her, "or his armour is like nothing ever created, or he is as strong as a God." The Herb Wife had confessed her amazement at his lack of serious wounds. Certainly he was coloured like a quilt for bruises, but he had broken no bones and there was no bleeding inside. His head had received the worst of it, and for that the Herb Wife was a little concerned. But she sutured the gash and spread poultice on it and laughed to Altheda about how his looks would not be damaged by so much as a scar.

The Herb Wife had taken great interest in the stranger's hands and feet, his five fingers and toes especially, and the strange paleness of his skin. His hair was drying a bizarre, almost yellow color that reminded Altheda of sunlight at certain hours of the day. The Herb Wife had looked at her, keen interest in her sharp, night-black eyes. "Where did you find him?" She had asked.

Altheda had been almost ashamed to answer; it sounded so much like a hearthside tale, like she was an over-imaginative child. "He fell from the sky."

But the Herb Wife had only nodded, as if that were the answer she had been expecting. "You'll be wanting the Soothsayer, then," she had said, "to see if this is the Saint."

Altheda had blushed as she nodded, part of her still unwilling to believe.

"I know what's in your head, Milady," the Herb Wife had said, "and I'm glad, because our Liege Lady could not be a fool, but," And here she had tapped her head with one gnarled deep-amber finger, next to her eye, "he has sky-eyes, child," she had said, "and hair like the sun." She had winked at Altheda, "there's only one man in the whole of the Histories who looks like that—and only when he returns from the Hall of the Dead." She had nodded, more seriously now. "Mark it well, Milady. Mark it well." And she had begun gathering up her things. "I'll be back later, for when he awakens." She had grinned, showing a wrinkled mouth with several missing teeth. "He will not be loving his head then, is certain. He'll want something for pain."

Altheda had looked from the stranger to the Herb Wife, "so he'll live?"

"Oh, yes, he'll live!" The Herb Wife had laughed. She had all her belongings now and started shuffling towards the large arched doors. "It would take more than a little fall from the sky to truly harm a Saint!"

"So, you really believe he is Saint Brennan, then?" Altheda had asked. She looked back at the man again, taking in his pale skin, the oddly couloured bruises. "But he's been hurt...and he is so, different..."

The Herb Wife had just grinned again. She shook her head like this was an obvious fact that hardly bore explanation. "You can't expect even a Hero to return from the Hall of the Dead unchanged, Milady. And as for his wounds: well, he's mortal now—or mostly. Prick him and he'll bleed and all, just like the rest of us."

"Just like the rest of us," Altheda had said. Looking at him, that had seemed so impossible.

"When he wakes up thirsty and his head aching, you'll see," the Herb Wife said. She smiled fondly at her Liege Lady. "I will return," she said as she went through the doors.

That had been two hours past, marked by the ringing of the bells, and Altheda had left the man's side but had not left the chamber, taking her vigil under the window. Thinking of Aethelstan, and Emma, and if this stranger might truly be the one to save all of them. Occasionally the thunder would roll again—Istvall, she would think, despite herself—and the lightening would flash outside the window, making it seem for a brief moment like a normal, sun-filled day.

Sun-hair, he had, and eyes like the sky. She had never seen the like, not even in the tapestries in the Hero's Hall, where the artists had chosen darker colors as if in fear of making Saint Brennan seem too inhuman. Yet here he was, a man, as large as life but no larger, sun-haired and blue-eyed like the sky itself had fallen into them.

Altheda lifted her own hand, holding it in front of her eyes and studying it under the hazy light from the window. Her skin was unremarkable, like Emma's; like her parents' and her brother's had been. She had three fingers on each hand, one thumb, four toes on each foot like anyone in the kingdom. Her eyes were not strange. Her hair was dark as hair was meant to be—straighter than Emma's, but just like her father's. Aethelstan had been the handsome one, sharing their mother's curls.

She missed him so much it was like a torment, like a thrashing inside of some wild beast that only lived to tear out her soul. If only he had waited to go to the mountains. He might still be alive, now. He might still be alive.

Her handmaidens had removed her armour, but she was still in her riding habit, still damp with the rain and smelling a little like her horse. Now she buried her head in her hands and wept. She wept like the world outside the window, feeling that she too might drown with it: an endless ocean of sorrow, ever rising.

Something in the room changed. A feeling, like she was being watched. She wiped her tears with her hands, since the Liege Lady did not cry, and raised her head.

Those sky-blue eyes were looking at her, right at her, and she could tell they were not blind at all.

He was watching her like a bird might watch a snake. Like life would continue or death would come dependant only on where he kept his eyes. They were bright like a fever; so blue it was almost painful to look at them. And they bore into Altheda's own like they would delve into the miserable depths of her very soul.

Altheda stood, slowly, their eyes still locked. Part of her wondered which of them might be the bird and which the snake. "You're safe here," she said, more to know if her voice would still obey her than to say anything, "we found you...you fell from the sky."

His mouth was working again like he would speak, and Altheda wondered if his voice had been hurt in the fall. Then he swallowed, grimacing.

She crossed the space to him quickly, glancing at the clay jug on the nightstand and wondering if she should give him water or not. His movements were sluggish and strange, like someone still in the grips of a dream. Altheda looked at the closed wooden doors to her brother's chamber, wishing desperately that the Herb Wife would come through them. Where was the woman? She had said She'd be back by the time the stranger awakened.

The Herb Wife had also said he'd be in pain. Altheda hesitated only a moment, then brought her palm to his forehead. His eyes slowly tracked her movement and then drifted back to her own. They seemed unfocussed, much as they had in the valley. The texture of his skin was wrong, too: overly smooth somehow, like his hair, but she was gratified that he already felt warmer than he had when first brought in from the rain. She touched his neck, then his shoulders where they showed just above the blanket. The same odd smoothness, but there was no longer the dangerous chill. Now they would need to worry about fever.

He flinched, bucked against her hand. She snatched it away, afraid she'd inadvertently hurt him. "What is it?" She asked, keeping her voice steady and quiet, afraid of making things worse, "what's wrong?"

He was thrashing: looking around, it seemed, looking for something; trying to throw off the covers. Altheda went to put her hand on his now-exposed arm, wanting to calm him, not knowing how she could give comfort.

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was weak, his eyes clouded, but his gaze still held her own. He struggled, trying to speak. Altheda stilled completely as she listened.

"Where's Malcolm?" He said, "Where is Malcolm?"

Altheda looked at him blankly. She mouthed the words he had just spoken, trying to make sense of them. "Ma'lcom..." she said aloud. It could almost be a word she recognized, but the rest—the rest made no sense at all. "Can you understand me?" She asked him. The blankness in his eyes was answer enough. Had he forgotten how to speak? Was there some other, unearthly tongue they spoke in the Hall of the Dead? "Ma'lcom," she tried again, hoping he could understand her, "Ma'lcom?"

His grip on her wrist tightened. He tried to move again, to sit up. Altheda put a hand on his chest and gently pressed him back down. She could hear the chamber doors opening, but didn't turn to see if it was Odette or the Herb Wife or someone else.

"Malcolm," he said again. His expression was so concerned—this was obviously something terribly important.

Altheda licked her lips, trying again. "Mal'com." She couldn't understand the gesture he made, but what she said seemed to be right. She tried one more time, finally linking the strange word to its proper pronunciation: "Mal-Kl-om."

She could tell by the way his heart was pounding under her fingers that she had hit on something vital. "Yes!" He said. His voice was so terribly weak, "That's it, that's it! Malcolm! Where is he?"

Altheda could see the Herb Wife out of the corner of her eye as the old woman finally approached. She began clucking and fussing happily over her patient, but Altheda stopped her before the Herb Wife could take the man's hand from her wrist. "Mal-Kl-om" Altheda said again. She wished so badly she could understand the rest, but this word, at least: this one word, she knew.

"It's all right, Brennan," she said. She smiled at him, clasping his hand in hers. "I know who you are now. I know why you've come back to us." She glanced at the window, at the ceaseless rain. The word he'd spoken to her was like light coming back to the world again.

The word _was_ light: Mal-Kl-om. The sun.


	4. Malcolm

Well, the shuttle was a total loss. Not much question about that.

Malcolm Reed lurched dizzily out into the rain-drenched darkness, trying to wipe the blood away from his nose with his hand. He was only marginally successful and he wished—not for the first time since the crash—that he'd been able to find the first-aid kit, or at least a piece of cloth that wasn't soaking.

He _had_ found his EVA gloves and his helmet, only because he'd tucked them under the shuttle's helm. That half of the shuttle was mostly intact; it was just the aft end that had ripped open like tin on the way down, spilling Trip and God knew what cargo out into the morning and the rain.

He guessed he'd found Trip's gloves when he'd come awake the first time, but he didn't remember that. He was only aware of waking up with the evening chill seeping inside his EVA suit, the gloves in a death-grip in one hand. He'd placed them inside his helmet with his own; he didn't know what else to do with them.

The fact that they might be the last things he'd ever see of Trip kept coming into his mind and skipping off like a stone on water. He couldn't believe the commander was dead, even with the violence of the debris. They had both been wearing their EVA suits, after all. It had saved Malcolm's life, why not Trip's?

No. He wasn't dead. He was lying out there somewhere, hurt and cold, but he wasn't dead. Malcolm was going to find him.

The rain beat on his head like little knives, painful and cold where they hit against his swollen eyes and broken nose. When the shuttled had clipped the mountain he'd been thrown face-first into the bulkhead. Just dumb Luck that he hadn't broken his neck, really, but he supposed he had the EVA suit to thank for that. Instantly unconscious, he'd known nothing about the rest of the crash. He hadn't even known his nose was broken until he'd checked to see where all the blood was coming from.

He stopped a moment, then turned and ponderously headed back into the remains of the shuttle. He picked up his helmet and secured it over his head. One pair of gloves he put on, the other he tucked into a small storage compartment in his suit, next to his phase pistol and UT/communicator device. Trip would need the gloves when he found him. He hoped he could find the commander's helmet as well.

Now he couldn't wipe away the blood from his nose, of course, but at least this way he'd have a light source and be warm and protected from the rain. He set the suit's air-valves to open so he wouldn't have to worry about oxygen. Luckily the air here was breathable, or he'd have been in a lot more trouble a long time ago.

It was a strange feeling, listening to the machine-gun sound of the rain off his helmet. It didn't help his headache much. Again he wished he knew where the first-aid kit had gone. A painkiller would have been nice.

He followed the trail of debris down the gentle slope of the valley, moving painfully slowly over the wet ground. He didn't feel entirely confident of his limbs, which he hoped was just a combination of the uncomfortable weight of the EVA suit, the slippery ground and the incredible pain in his head. It felt like someone had shoved a burning stone right behind his eyes. The light provided by the EVA suit didn't help as much as he had hoped, but it was certainly better than groping his way in the dark. The suit—he hoped—would also serve as protection in case there were any large predators in the forest; though perhaps they were smarter than he was and were all skulking somewhere out of the rain.

The thought of large predators, and Trip, probably helpless somewhere without a helmet, was not a very pleasant one at all. Malcolm increased his pace as much as he dared.

He found the first-aid kit, finally, when he almost stumbled over it. The silver case shone nicely in the lights from his suit, but he was nearly on top of it when it finally showed up in the rain. He skidded to a painful stop right next to it, bent down awkwardly and picked it up. The movement made his aching head ring like little bells, but it seemed like far too much work to take off his helmet again and find the damn painkillers in the kit. Trip surely needed them more than he did, anyway.

He kept on, moving at the same halting pace through the darkness. He'd set his suit to broadcast externally, so Trip could hear him when he yelled his name. He was following the trail of wreckage and debris, hoping to find some sign of the commander. In the thin light from his suit the wreckage looked eerie and organic, like coral ruins from some ancient, amorphous civilization.

There was no sign of Trip; it was like he'd never even existed.

Malcolm stopped, leaning back heavily against a wet tree trunk and gasping. He remembered grade-school admonishments to never stand under trees during rainstorms, but he was sure that the mountains long behind him would make a much finer target for lightening.

"Malcolm to _Enterprise_ ," he said, keying the comlink inside his helmet. His voice sounded tired and strange, thickened by the damage to his nose. He could taste blood in his mouth and swallowed it, grimacing.

There was only static. He'd expected as much, with the intensity of the rain, but he'd been hoping. _Enterprise_ could find Trip much more easily than he could. Unless Trip was dead.

Which he wasn't. That didn't even bear thinking about.

Malcolm took a deep breath and pushed himself away from the tree. He was wading at this point; the water level was deepening the further he went down the incline of the valley. He took his helmet off and his face and hair, nearly dry by now, were almost instantly soaked. The blood from his nose washed down his neck and chest. It was miserably cold around his exposed skin. He desperately hoped that Trip, wherever he was, had found some shelter, or at least wasn't lying in a pool of water.

"Trip! TRIP!" He hollered, forcing as much volume as he could from his throat. His voice seemed pitifully weak against the endless drumming of the rainfall, echoing thinly around him. It had been much louder when he was broadcasting with his helmet on, but he'd become concerned that Trip might be calling back, without Malcolm being able to hear him. He closed his eyes, trying not to breathe as he listened. He could hear nothing at all except the rain.

"TRIP!" He took another step, and his foot slipped on something. He nearly fell.

He regained his balance awkwardly, with both his gloved hands full. There was a black-on-black shape coiled just in front of his foot, the thing he had stepped on. He back-pedalled as quickly as he was able, preparing to bash whatever it was with his helmet, but when it didn't move he realized the thing was either inanimate or dead. He put his helmet back on so he could make use of the light, then crouched down carefully to see what it actually was.

It was cloth, something like oilcloth, though it was hard to tell through his gloves. It shone wetly under the lamp, either black or deep green, and he could make out a hood and a small buckle to fasten it at the throat. Had someone dropped it here deliberately? Or was there another person nearby in need of rescue? He hoped it was the former; if someone had collapsed here with the water rising like this they surely would have drowned. But if they'd left it deliberately...He looked around him, his light ghosting over the water on the ground. There were some glints of metal here and there, small pieces of the shuttle pod. Whoever had left the cape here may well have been investigating the crash—or may at least have discovered some of the wreckage.

Maybe they had found Trip as well, and had helped him. Malcolm could only hope.

He left the cape where it was, since it would be too difficult to carry. He closed his eyes again, forcing his tired and aching mind to concentrate. Yes: he remembered seeing a structure as they were coming in, before the missile—or whatever it was—had hit them. It had been to the west, at the edge of the forested valley where the land had begun to rise again. He remembered thinking how much it looked like a medieval English castle, at least what little he had been able to make out. He had no idea how anyone could have gotten from there to the crash site so quickly—if that was indeed when the cape had been left, and not earlier—but at least it gave him a direction to go in. Hopefully he would come across a village near to the castle; and he could get the Universal Translator to work; and he would find some friendly locals willing to help him.

That was a lot of uncertainty, and Malcolm hated depending on luck, but at the moment he was unable to think of an alternative. And he had to do something: Trip was depending on him. He set out again, going west, trying to think of nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other and not falling. He guessed that if he walked all night, he might just make it to the castle gates sometime after dawn.


	5. Heroes

The young woman was looking at him again, expectantly, if he was guessing her expression right. Like there was something she was hoping he would do.

Trip smiled back at her, a little, feeling like an idiot. Wishing to hell that he'd had his UT with him. Malcolm had told him to pack it in the EVA suit, just to be on the safe side, but he couldn't remember if he'd done that or not. In any case he had no idea where his suit was, either.

He was sitting up in a bed, in a bedroom larger than any he'd ever been in, which looked like something right out of a historical movie. All the furniture was wood, some broodingly dark kind like cherry or mahogany. The mattress felt lumpy and organic; not uncomfortable, but like it was stuffed with feathers. The only light came from a large window, an elaborate chandelier made from candles, hanging from the high ceiling, and the fireplace in the far wall. The blankets—and there were a ton of them—were something a lot like wool: they itched. The sheets underneath seemed to be wool-like as well, but a lot finer.

The small bowl he was drinking from, which held a sour liquid he guessed was some sort of tea, was metal, with two small handles on either side. The old woman had given it to him after she'd checked his head, clucking and chuckling to herself and the young woman the whole time. She had been adamant about him drinking it, placing it back in his hands each time he'd tried to push it away. He was assuming it was a painkiller. He just hoped it wouldn't put him to sleep.

Trip wasn't sure, especially with the uniformity of the rain, but he figured he'd been sleeping a long time. He felt better, which was good, but he didn't remember much after the shuttle pod hitting the tree. He had no idea how long he'd been here, or how hurt he'd been. At the moment he had no real way to ask, either.

He did remember the young woman, the one sitting in the chair by the window now, looking at him as if any second she expected him to explode or burst into song or something. He thought he remembered her from the forest, but that had probably been a dream. But he knew for sure she had been there when he had woken up the first time, though that also felt pretty much like a dream. She had held his hand and told him Malcolm was all right.

Except she didn't understand his language anymore, no more than he understood hers. And she kept...watching him. Maybe she just couldn't figure out why he looked so different from her. That was the only thing that made sense to him.

He smiled tentatively at her again. She smiled tentatively back. He took a long drink of the tea.

"What's your name?" He said at last, mostly because he was just sick of the silence. Trip really only liked silence when he was sleeping or reading or doing things that needed quiet. Otherwise it made him nervous.

She actually jumped a little, startled. "Sorry," Trip said, though he knew there was no way she could understand him. He put the metal cup aside, with the woman attentively watching every move. "My name's Trip," he said.

She watched him. "Trip," she repeated. The word sounded almost exactly like his name, but he could tell it meant nothing to her.

"That's it, that's good," Trip said. He couldn't help grinning at this small success. She smiled again, but there was still a bit of confusion in her deep black eyes. Trip tapped his breastbone with two fingers, almost tempted to say 'Tarzan.' He bit back a laugh that he knew would totally flummox the poor thing. "Trip," he said instead. He tapped again, hoping she'd get it. "Trip."

Uncertainly, the woman touched the space between her breasts. She had very nice breasts. Trip decided not to let his gaze linger there. "Tr-iip."

No, that was wrong. She was drawing out the syllables, making his name sound like an entirely different word. Besides, he wasn't exactly naming his chest for her. He shook his head, wondering if it was a gesture she'd understand. He flattened his hand this time, pressing it against his chest. "Trip."

Her face didn't move quite the way he was used to, but Trip could still tell she was confused. She spoke rapidly, patting her chest again. Trip thought he could make out his name a couple times, but he wasn't sure.

She got up and came over to him, dark eyes full of concern. She touched his breastbone gently. "Tr-iip?" She asked, then several more rapid-fire sentences.

Trip closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "No honey," he said, "thank you, but I'm not in pain."

There was a light touch on the side of his head. Trip opened his eyes.

The woman was looking at him, her sunset-coloured skin and dark eyes making her look almost leonine in the low light. Outside there was a crash of thunder.

"Mal-Kl-om?" The woman said. Her gaze went to the window, looking up. "Mal-Kl-om?"

"He's in the shuttle?" Trip ignored her blank look. He was about to throw the covers off him and go to the window, but a sound like a strained gasp stopped him.

The woman had one four-fingered hand on the blankets, firmly holding them down. Her other hand was covering her mouth in a terribly human gesture.

"Oh. Sorry. Right." Trip said. He could feel himself blushing from his collarbones to the roots of his hair. He'd forgotten that he didn't have any clothes.

She moved back; so Trip grabbed one of the blankets and yanked it off the bed, using it improvise a covering for him. She said something else but he ignored her. It itched annoyingly, but at least this way he could move around without scaring anyone. The floor was stone and unpleasantly cold under his bare feet.

The window was almost as tall as the room, made of small panes of what looked like hand-blown glass fitted in frames of some kind of metal. He could only see through one small pane at a time, though, and squinting upward into the rain didn't help him see much.

He looked to the window frame, and saw that there was two thick metal hinges on the lower half, with a lock on the other side. It wasn't difficult to open, though a little awkward since he had to keep one hand holding the blanket around his waist. The window swung outwards, letting a blast of wet and frigid air into the room. The fire in the hearth guttered for a moment before blazing again. The sound of the rain was almost deafening after the peaceful quiet of the bedroom.

Trip bent and poked his head out, twisting his neck as much as he was able to see the sky and the horizon. Nothing but clouds and rain and what little he could see of the slowly drowning valley until it faded into the murky distance. They were above a cobbled courtyard, completely empty. The cobblestones were awash in a rime of muddy water.

His upper body was dripping wet in seconds. He didn't see Malcolm.

The woman was tugging at his shoulder, babbling something anxiously. "Keep yer shirt on," he said tiredly as he ducked back inside, "I ain't gonna jump." He smiled at her as he tried to scoop the water out of his hair. Rain was running down his chest and back in rivulets, slowly soaking into the blanket.

The woman looked at him, obviously distressed. She pointed out the window, up at the sky. "Mal-Kl-om?"

"That's his name," Trip said, "but I have no idea what you're talkin' about." He followed where she was pointing, turning back towards the window. She was pointing at the sky. Just the sky.

"What?" Trip asked, "What is it? What about Malcolm and the sky?" He pointed upwards, in the same direction she was. "Malcolm?"

He had no idea what that gesture meant, but her smile was obvious. "Mal-Kl-om!" She said firmly. She pointed again, adding emphasis. She said something else that was meaningless to him.

He covered his eyes with his hand. He was feeling his headache creeping back again. "Okay," he said to no one in particular, "Malcolm's in the sky."

He looked up sharply, dropping his hand. "Do you mean, _Enterprise_? Our ship?"

No, she most definitely did not mean _Enterprise_. At least not by that name. Her pretty face was as confused as ever.

She spread her arms and made a gesture with her head he didn't recognize, then turned abruptly and disappeared into an adjoining room. When she came back she was carrying a bundle of cloth in her hands.

She walked up to him and pressed it to his chest. Trip took it automatically with his free hand.

"Aethelstan," she said with conviction. She smiled, though it seemed to Trip her eyes were sad. She touched her fingers to her lips, then touched the cloth, smiled again. "Aethelstan, nar Brennan."

Trip just smiled. "Thank you," he said seriously. He didn't know what had just transpired, but he had a feeling she had just given him a precious gift.

She smiled, made an obvious bow to him, then retreated again to the second room.

Trip put the bundle on the bed and looked at it. It was clothing, local garb for a male he assumed, since the young woman had been wearing robes reminiscent of Earth dresses. The pants seemed to be of the same material and weave as the bed sheets, coarse but not uncomfortable, in a very deep green. Those he pulled on immediately. They fit well enough at the waist, but he wasn't sure how loose they were meant to be on the thighs. They felt loose, anyway.

The shirt was white, with flowing sleeves and something that seemed like a belt except there were two of them, one tied to each side. Trip had no idea which half was meant to be the front, so he took his best guess and slipped the shirt on over his head. The shirt seemed very loose, especially as it fell to mid-thigh, but it was warm and comfortable so he wasn't about to complain.

He heard the woman call something to him from the other room. "Yeah, thanks," he said, "I sure could use some help."

She poked her head in, saw what he was doing, covered her mouth with her hand and retreated. Trip was sure he heard a sound very much like a laugh.

She came in quickly, face lowered and demure, then gently but firmly grabbed his sleeves and tugged. Trip let her, only slightly chagrined when she pulled one sleeve off then the other, then turned the shirt around. It felt no different to him, but she seemed much happier so he left it alone. She wrapped each of the white cords attached to the shirt in the opposite direction around his waist, pulling one across the back first, the other across the front, then wrapping them around until she could tie them together. Trip watched her small hands intently, trying to memorize how she made the knot. It seemed to be something easier to do with four fingers than five.

When she had finished, the woman stepped back and regarded him appraisingly. She said something smilingly, which hopefully meant she approved. Then she looked at his feet and frowned.

She said something, looking apologetic. "It's okay," Trip grinned, sure that this much, at least, he could figure out, "you don't have any shoes that would fit my feet—I understand." To show he did, he took her elbow and placed his foot gently beside hers, then pointed to the difference in width between them. Her foot was very much narrower, even accounting for their difference in size.

The woman laughed and made that gesture again—a kind of shake from side to side—that Trip was sure now was a nod. Maybe he'd learn to speak to these people after all.

She took his hand, still smiling, and led him out the door and down a long and wide passageway. Trip gawked unashamedly, wishing he'd had his camera. The whole place seemed to be made of carved and fitted blocks of a stone almost like quartz. Some seemed to have a natural luminescence, which added to the sconces braced along the wall. There were rooms on either side, each guarded by two high, rounded doors that met in the center to make a single domed shape. The wood was intricately carved, though they were walking too fast to allow Trip to make out the scenes. There was one, at least, that he was sure was this planet's equivalent story of Saint George and the Dragon.

At the end of the hallway was an even larger room. There were no pictures or scenes carved on each half of the huge, rounded door, just symbols that Trip were sure were words. The woman dropped his hand, then walked forward and gently pushed both doors open and stepped inside.

Trip followed her dutifully, then stopped. The room was well lit, with the same mixture of chandelier, roaring hearth and large window, only this time there were the luminescent bricks as well, adding to the glow in the room.

But there was no one who would have appreciated that light, or the fire's warmth. The room was full of statues, carved out of stone.

"Wow..." Trip said, looking around him. The statues reminded him of sculptures form ancient Greece or Rome—they had the same kind of beauty and attention to realistic detail, though the quartz-like substance used for the carvings made them seem more like crystal or glass. The statues' eyes were open, their expressions closed but serene. The vast majority of them held small, lidded jars in carefully sculpted cupped hands. The jars all looked to be precious somehow, though Trip didn't recognize the metal. The workmanship was obvious, and many were dotted with what he was sure were precious stones.

The walls were covered in tapestries, beautifully woven. Trip caught the dragon scene again and smiled, then saw other pictures that looked like knights—men and women—kneeling before ladies and lords; artisans working their crafts; even people who Trip was sure were farmers and ranchers, since it looked so similar to things he recognized from his own family. Everything looked idyllic, pleasant, and almost utopian. Trip couldn't help smiling. It reminded him of things he'd read about in his civilization classes: about how older cultures had envisioned the afterlife.

His smile dropped like a stone. "Oh my God," he said quietly. It suddenly felt vitally important not to make too much noise in there. He walked forward, picking one of the sculptures at random. This one seemed particularly antique, of an old woman gazing upward at some unseen but apparently pleasant vision. The jar she held in her hands was silver in color, with stones that looked a lot like emeralds and diamonds.

Trip carefully went to touch it, looking over his shoulder at the woman, waiting for her reaction to know if it was all right or not. She looked slightly uncomfortable but stayed still. Trip touched the lid. He took the small rounded handle and gently opened it. He bent his head to look inside, holding his breath.

It was full of ashes. Trip gently put the lid back, making sure the seal was tight. He straightened up and let out a breath. This was the castle's mausoleum. Maybe even for nearby towns.

He looked at the woman, and the question on his face must have been obvious, because she took his hand again. She pulled him towards one of the tapestries—the one with the dragon-thing—but then paused by a group of statues that were very close together, maybe representing a family. They looked like they were carved recently, almost new. Trip glanced at one of the statues, blinked, then looked more closely: it was an exact replica of the young woman. Her likeness' hands were empty as well—obviously waiting.

But the statue standing next to her own was the one she pointed to: this one of a young man with a gentle smile on his handsome face. Trip marveled at the care that had been taken to sculpt the curls into his hair. His hands were cupped, as were all the others, but empty.

"Aethelstan," she said clearly. She touched the statue's cheek almost reverently. Trip saw she was blinking rapidly, as if to hide tears.

She tugged on his shirtsleeve, then touched the statue again. Looking up at him to make sure Trip understood. "Aethelstan."

Trip looked from the woman to the sculpture. Her meaning was obvious. This person, Aethelstan, whomever he had been, brother, husband, was dead. Recently dead. She had given Trip his clothes.

Trip suddenly felt a chill, though he knew it was entirely imaginary. He remembered how deferentially the woman had given him the clothes. It occurred to him that he must have been in that man's rooms, since she hadn't had to go anywhere else to get them.

He had meant a great deal to her, this Aethelstan. He touched her shoulder, making her look at him. "Thank you," he said sincerely, "I'm honoured." He knew she couldn't understand his words, but she smiled. Maybe she understood enough.

The woman took his hand again, shaking her head slightly as if to collect herself. She pulled him the rest of the way to the tapestry, then reached up as far as she could and tapped on part of the picture. It was a depiction of the sun, as round and glowing and beautiful as anything Trip remembered seeing from Earth. The only difference here was that the sun seemed slightly more red than golden, which made Trip wonder if it was an older star than Sol, or if colors were perceived differently by these people.

The woman tapped firmly on the sun-picture. "Mal-Kl-om," she said, "Mal-Kl-om."

Trip looked at her blankly. "Malcolm's the sun?" He asked. She wasn't smiling now, and Trip looked again at all the memorial sculptures of the dead, the artificial brightness of the room, and suddenly he sucked in air like he'd just been stabbed.

Oh God. She couldn't mean that. She couldn't. That wasn't why she had taken him here, was it? It couldn't be. It just couldn't be.

He looked at her, eyes already liquid with fear, "Malcolm...Malcolm is _dead_?"

She stared at him blankly. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to fall to his knees, curl up into a ball and start screaming. It wasn't possible. It could not be possible. How could he be alive if Malcolm wasn't? How could Malcolm be dead?

There was a noise in the courtyard below, something loud and unfamiliar to his ears. It took a long time for Trip to realize that the noise wasn't normal background for this place. The young woman had already gone to the window; she had opened it and was looking out.

"Emma!" She shouted suddenly, "EMMA!" He had no idea if it was a command, an insult, a name...but the woman turned and fled from the chamber, pushing through the wooden doors so fast they kept swinging and clacking together behind her, leaving Trip alone.


	6. Armour

Altheda ran through the main doors of her castle, ignoring the servants imploring her to not go out into the cold and wet again, or to at least wait while they fetched her something warm. Emma was there, with two other Siran, loading the last of her campaign gear onto the voluminous saddle on Freja's back. Her red rain cape was flat against her shoulders, the hood covering all but wisps of her hair. In the grey of the rain it looked dark as blood.

"Emma!" Altheda called, running to her, slipping and skidding like a newborn foal on the muddy, rain-slick cobbles. She didn't care if she sounded completely un-Liege like, if everyone around her took her for a madwoman and a fool. "Emma!" She called again, grateful when the Sira finally turned around.

Altheda practically crashed into her, counting on Emma's greater size and strength to keep them both upright. She grabbed two fistfuls of the front of Emma's rain cape, feeling the cold of the wet material in her palms. "Emma," she said, voice frantic, eyes equally wet with tears and rain, "you can't go, Emma! Not to the mountains. Not to fight!" She yanked hard against the cloth she held, forcing the Sira to listen. "I forbid it—do you understand?" Altheda made her voice as harsh as possible as she looked up into her Sword Woman's eyes, tried to make her expression fierce enough that there would be no argument. She doubted she managed it; she had not felt so young and vulnerable since her mother had died. "I forbid it!" she repeated, "I am Liege Lady and you must obey me and you shall not go!"

Emma just looked down at her, smiling tenderly. Her eyes were sad. "When I pledged my sword and life to you, Milady, you knew better than I that you and your family only represent the whole of Norvenda. The Realm must come first. Even if you were not here my sword and life would still be for the Realm."

"No!" Altheda said desperately. She refused to let go of Emma's rain cape, clutching it as if it were her own life. "I forbid it!" She repeated. Then her eyes widened in realization. "—But you don't have to go!" She looked up to the window of the Hall of Heroes. She was right—Brennan was there, looking down at them. His pale, handsome face seemed concerned.

Altheda let go of Emma's cape with one hand so she could point. "That is the Saint, Emma!" She said, hope strengthening her voice. She could hear the rattling of their armour as the two Siran with Emma turned to look, but she ignored their exclamations. "Saint Brennan has returned to help us, to bring back the sun!"

Emma caught her wrist gently, bringing her hand against her chest. "He may well be one of the Gods returned," she said, smiling with that same sadness, "but that does not change my duty, Milady, or when I should carry it out." She tilted her head up for a moment, closing her eyes as the raindrops skittered down her face, making her guildmark look like a small red stain. She looked back at her Liege Lady. "You see—it still rains."

"No," Altheda said desperately, pleading. "Don't go—you don't have to go!

Not you too, Emma. Please, by the Five Heroes, not you too!" Her voice caught, and she had to regain control of herself before she could speak. "Not you, Emma. Not after Aethelstan." She looked up helplessly at Emma's face. "You can't do this to me. Not after my brother. Not when the Saint is here to save us." She was squeezing Emma's hand in her own so hard she knew it had to hurt, but the Sira's face remained gentle and calm. "You can't make me lose you!" Altheda was shouting again, angry now, furious and grieving and terrified. "You can't! You can't!"

"I must," Emma said simply. There was no anger in her voice, no rancor or fear, only a soft, gentle sadness. She bent her head and touched her lips to Altheda's brow, streaming wet from the rain. "I will be back as soon as I can."

"You won't," Altheda said. She swallowed, then broke away from the Sira, turning her back on her. "You won't." She whispered.

She didn't see Emma looking back at her as she prepared to mount her horse. Instead Altheda looked up at the window, where Brennan was looking down at her. His face was stricken, pale hair and skin wet. "Stop her!" She called to him, knowing she was being stupid, knowing he wouldn't understand. " _Please_ Brennan! Stop her! Don't let her go!"

Freja put her leg up and Emma stepped on it to mount her. She settled into the saddle easily, glancing at the two Siran behind her. "Mount up!" She ordered them; they were looking from their Liege Lady to the figure in the window, obviously unsure what they should do.

Anke turned to look at Emma. She hadn't mounted Dant yet, though he had bent his leg for her and was waiting patiently. Her voice was awed. "Is that really the Saint?"

Emma nodded. "He is," she said, "and if the Heroes please he will help us—but we still have our own jobs to do." She tapped her cheek for emphasis, finger touching unerringly on her guildmark. "Norvenda still needs us Siran."

"True," Anke nodded. She glanced at the window again—wistfully, it seemed to Emma, then mounted Dant. She looked at the Liege Lady as she moved her horse up beside Emma. Guilliam, riding black Karsh, was already even with Freja's powerful shoulder. "She should not be out in the rain."

Emma smiled slightly, but she did not look back. "The rain is speaking her sorrow right now; she'll go in when she gets too cold."

On her left, Guilliam grunted. He hadn't pulled his rain cape up, and his jet-black hair was plastered to his skull. He blinked then shook water out of his eyes. "'Didn't expect you to disobey her," he said with typical gruffness. He looked back at Altheda, still standing with her back to them, and his expression softened. "If we _don't_ come back, Emma, I hate to think of the Liege Lady being left without so much as five Siran."

"She'll be fine without us," Emma said, forcing herself to believe it. "As long as the rain does not drown the whole world, she'll be fine."

"Ho there," Anke said suddenly from Emma's right side. She was leaning forward on Dant's back, squinting into the rain. "What by the Five Gods is _that_?"

Emma followed her gaze instantly, reigning Freja to a stop. She leaned out, gazing into the rain just as Anke was. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Guilliam doing the same. There was something coming towards them: a shape in bronze, moving carefully, almost ponderously over the waterlogged road.

"Do we attack?" The Siran asked bluntly. Karsh snorted, as if echoing Guilliam's sentiment.

"No..." Emma said slowly. She was squinting herself now, though it was almost impossible to make out details from this distance. But that color...She remembered that color. She remembered it very well. She looked over her shoulder, up at the window to the Hall of Heroes. The three Siran hadn't crossed through the courtyard gate yet, so Brennan was still clearly visible with the lights from the room behind him. She blinked, hesitating. For a moment she had expected that he wouldn't be there—or that he would be in the armour she remembered from yesterday's early morning, when she and Emma had found him weak and struggling in the woods. She wanted to call to him, to demand that he tell her what was going on, but remembered what Altheda had told her while he was sleeping: that he spoke some kind of God-tongue, totally different from what mortals spoke. That their own language was completely unfamiliar to him.

Emma looked back at the figure in the road, obviously coming towards them, now less than three horse-spans away. He or she was wearing armour the same as Saint Brennan's; she could not make out the face behind the strange glass covering. Freja, sensing her unease, shifted nervously from foot to foot, jostling her rider and throwing off droplets of rain.

"Well?" Guilliam asked. Emma could hear the uncertainty in his voice. Not quite fear yet, but still the eagerness to do something. There was a metal-on-metal sound as he slowly drew his blade.

"Not yet," she responded quietly. "This is..." She licked her lips, suddenly dry despite the rain. "I think this is someone important." Another Saint? But Brennan was the only one ever written of who returned from the Hall of the Dead.

Emma heard splashing behind her then, and looked over her shoulder to see her Liege Lady, ducking as she walked underneath Freja. "Milady...!" Emma warned, but Altheda was obviously ignoring her. The young woman stood right in front of Freja, standing as tall and proud as if she were in no way bedraggled, mud-splattered or soaking. Emma clucked her tongue in annoyance, since now she could not even move her horse. But she was certain that Altheda had planned it that way—to make sure her Siran did nothing without her consent.

The stranger—God, person, Saint, armour-thief—was less than two horse-spans away now. The armour was definitely exactly the same as Brennan's. It shone dull bronze under the constant assault of the rain. "Who goes there?" Emma called, making her voice clear and ringing. "Who goes there, in the name of the Liege Lady of Norvenda?"

The figure stopped, stood stock-still for a moment. Guilliam twitched beside her, and Emma put out her hand to stop him. She knew Guilliam tightened his grip on Karsh's reins, but kept her full attention on the form in front of them.

Two bronze-clad hands rose to the helmet, doing something at the place where it met the round lip at the neck. Then those hands pressed to either side of the helmet and slowly lifted it off.

It was a man. Another man. His skin was like Brennan's, though his hair was darker—normal-coloured, or nearly. His face looked misshapen, also wounded, perhaps. It reminded Emma of what the Saint had looked like when they had first found him.

It was impossible to make out his eyes, or the number of his fingers in the dim light, but Emma was sure there would be five of them, and that his eyes would not be dark.

"My name is Malcolm Reed," he said, distinctly and clearly in her-own language. He tucked the helmet under his arm, apparently as oblivious as Altheda to the drenching rain. "—And I'm not here in the name of anyone."


	7. Reunion

Malcolm Reed, Armoury Officer and Chief of Security aboard the _Enterprise_ , looked at the quartet of beings arrayed before him and wondered if he might actually be going mad. They looked like elves, all of them: human-sized amber-coloured elves on beasts that looked like nothing so much as giant wolves. With tusks. Elephant-sized Wolves with tusks. At a guess he'd say their bellies hung nearly two meters off the ground.

"My name is Malcolm Reed," he said, as distinctly and clearly as he could manage, "—and I'm not here in the name of anyone." He'd been amazed that he could understand their language, since Hoshi hadn't specifically programmed the Universal Translators. Of course, no one on _Enterprise_ had actually thought they'd need them, Malcolm included. There had been no sign of danger on the planet, overt or otherwise—save the natural radiation in the mountains—and in the near-impossibility of a crash, he and Trip had been certain they would have landed nearly a day's travel away from the nearest signs of habitation. Now, standing in front of an organic wall of giant lupines, Malcolm was beginning to understand how the locals might have come across the crash site so quickly.

The young-looking woman, who was standing in front of the middle wolf-creature, apparently oblivious to the rain, took a tentative step towards him. He could well understand her hesitation, since he thought he must look a fright with a broken nose and skin obviously the wrong color for these people. He remained unmoving; keeping his face purposefully expressionless since he had no idea how any gesture might affect them.

"I am Altheda," she said carefully, "Liege Lady of the Realm of Norvenda." Her expression changed to something very much like a nervous smile. "Are you the one called..." she hesitated over the word, "Of-the-Sun?"

So he was in a place called Norvenda, apparently in audience with their equivalent of a queen who seemed to have no trouble whatsoever with letting everyone get soaked in the rain. But Malcolm had no idea what she'd just called him—it _sounded_ like his name, but God knew his name had never meant _that_. "My name is Malcolm," he repeated, saying it a little more slowly.

The woman called Altheda looked over her shoulder at the mounted woman behind her, having to crane a bit to catch the other's eyes. That woman, who had a red design on her cheek, made a gesture that looked so much like a shrug Malcolm had to smile, though he had schooled his features by the time the Liege-person looked back at him.

"Of-the-Sun," she said again, if anything pronouncing it more deliberately.

"Are you a companion of the Saint?"

Malcolm blinked. His first impulse was to ask her what the bloody hell she was talking about, but he clamped down on it instantly. He thought quickly, knowing the group might get suspicious or frightened if he took too long to answer.

All right: she seemed to know his name, though it was apparently a whole phrase in her language. Which meant someone had told her his name. Someone who looked enough like him that she thought they might be companions.

He swallowed, heart suddenly beating double-time, "did this Saint," he asked, "...did he fall from the sky?"

There were gasps and murmurs from some of the mounted ones behind her, but they were speaking too fast for the UT to make out. The one called Altheda, however, just looked at him as if what he had said was only what she'd expected. "Did you not come down with him?"

Malcolm's eyes might have widened if they weren't so swollen from his injury. He had to work at keeping his voice even. "I came down later," he said quickly. Technically it was true—if you counted walking time. "I would greatly like to see him. Is he well?" The last part he had to force himself to ask. If Trip had come this far, only to die...Malcolm broke the thought abruptly. It hadn't happened. If Trip were here then he was fine. He had to be fine.

"Saint Brennan is quite well, Siran," cut in the woman on wolf-back behind the Liege Lady. The names she used meant nothing to Malcolm, but the rider turned smoothly in her saddle and pointed up to a tall window, open to the courtyard. It was almost impossible to see around the enormous wolf creatures and their riders, but Malcolm could still make out a white-shirted figure, leaning out into the rain as he looked from the window, head turned as if to see...

Malcolm was running before he even realized it. His helmet: dropped, forgotten, splashed behind him onto the road. The giant wolves were problematic, but only barely. He ducked under the largest one, a jet-black creature, skidding on the wet stones and almost falling to his knees. The wolf lurched to avoid him, and Malcolm heard an untranslatable curse from its rider, then the wet tail was slapping down his back and he was in the courtyard, running and slipping and stumbling as fast as he could along the cobbles, cursing the clumsiness of his EVA suit that wasn't allowing him to go faster...

And then Trip was right there, outside with him in the rain, embracing Malcolm's neck and head because that was the only skin he could reach through that damned suit, and Malcolm was hugging him back, as tightly as he dared with so much metal between them, and both of them were half-sobbing and half-laughing and saying stupid things like: 'you're all right! You're alive, you're alive!'

Trip pulled back first, but just enough to get a better look at his lover's face. "You look like crap," he said, laughing, "didn't you find the first-aid kit?" His eyes were red, though it was impossible to tell what were tears and what was rain on his face.

"You look great," Malcolm answered honestly. He was surprised that Trip's bruises had healed so much in less than two days—there was only a slightly

discoloured patch on one cheek, and a rakish-looking bandage wrapped around his forehead to show he'd been injured at all.

Trip leaned in again, touching Malcolm's lips lightly with his own, then resting his forehead against his. "God, I was so worried, Malc." He whispered. "I was so scared somethin' had happened to you."

Malcolm just pulled him closer; though he was sure his suit must be digging painfully into Trip's skin. "You're all right," he said to him. His throat was so tight he could barely speak the words. "Thank God you're all right. I was looking for you—" His voice broke on a sob and he shook his head sharply, as if to force back the threatening tears.

"It's okay, Malc," Trip said quietly, "It's okay. We're both okay."

Malcolm just nodded mutely, swallowing. He finally pulled back, belatedly realizing that there were strangers watching them. Trip left his hand on his shoulder as they both turned to face the amber-skinned people. All three of the wolf-riders were dismounting. The Liege Lady was walking towards them, Malcolm's helmet hanging from her hand.

"Is this your Sword Man, Saint Brennan?" Altheda asked, obviously speaking to Trip.

Trip blinked, stunned. He looked at Malcolm then back at the woman in front of him. "Wha—"

"I am," Malcolm said calmly, making his voice sound certain. "Thank you for taking such good care of him for me." He hoped they could hear the depth of gratitude in his words. "I have been looking for him for a long time." He turned to Trip and said pointedly, "I am so glad to find you well, _Brennan_."

A glimmer of confusion passed through Trip's eyes, then he nodded slowly but with increasing conviction. "I'm fine," he said. Malcolm noticed he was purposely minimizing his accent, trying to sound a bit more like the Lieutenant. He turned back to the others. "Thank you for taking such good care of me."

Altheda came forward, followed closely by the woman who seemed to be the leader of the riders. She looked...relieved, Malcolm decided, though he couldn't be certain of her expression. Relieved, and a little confused perhaps, but mostly like an impossible weight had been lifted off her shoulders. "I am so glad you are here, Of-the-Sun," she said, "the Saint has not been whole without you—he could not even speak to us."

"Y'both fell from the sky, then?" This question came from the one man in the group: black-bearded and bear-like with skin so dark it was almost orange. He too had a red mark on his cheek. He was leading the black wolf-creature, and they made a perfect, if sopping, pair. The giant beast suddenly snuffled in a way that reminded Malcolm of Porthos; it occurred to him that no one among them was enjoying being out in this rain.

The man sniffed a little himself and stepped forward, gesturing at Malcolm's bruised eyes. "Looks like you had the rougher time of it." He turned to the tall woman beside him. "Emma, this Siran needs the Herb Wife—are you going to let him stand here 'til he catches lungrot in this rain?"

"He's not made of snow," the one called Emma snorted. But still, she bent her head near to Altheda's. "Milady?"

Altheda blinked, as if just suddenly realizing they were all outside, soaked to the skin. "Oh! Of course!" She exclaimed, and Malcolm decided that her new, darker skin-colour was her blushing to the tips of her amber-coloured ears. "Please, Siran, come inside and get warm. I will fetch the Herb Wife for you."

"Thank you," Malcolm said graciously. He followed Altheda and Emma inside. He glanced over his shoulder to see the remaining man and woman leading the three giant wolves around to the back of the castle. They seemed to be grumbling something to each other, but the UT wouldn't work at this distance.

He leaned in close to Trip as the two women disappeared into the building. "Why are they calling you a Saint?"

"I've no idea," Trip whispered back. "What's a Sword Man? Is that like a knight?"

"Reasonable guess, I'd say," Malcolm answered, "I think 'Siran' means the same thing." He sniffed from the cold, then winced from the pain it caused his nose. "Is this Herb Wife person dangerous?"

"She's great," Trip responded enthusiastically, "I don't know what that gunk is they use, but she's as good as Phlox."

Malcolm looked at him wryly. "Is that meant to be comforting?"

They had reached the base of the stairs, and Malcolm lifted his foot to mount the first step, and suddenly he was hit with a wave of exhaustion so heavy he wasn't sure he could keep standing.

Trip was there instantly, his hands on his metal-clad shoulders. "M'God," he said, "yer white as a sheet! What happened?"

Malcolm smiled grimly. "I'm fine," he said, "it just seems the adrenaline has worn off." He glanced at the stairs, which now looked impassable, then back down at his foot encased in the EVA boot. His leg was trembling so hard the metal was shimmering.

"Don't worry," Trip said, "I gotcha." Malcolm let Trip pull his left arm over his shoulder, leaning on him heavily. He noticed then that Trip wasn't wearing anything on his feet. The toes were pink from the cold.

"Trip!" He admonished weakly, "you should get your boots on—you could catch your death out here."

Trip just looked at him. "They don't have boots that fit," he said. He studied Malcolm's battered face and his eyebrows lowered in concern. "Why didn't you use the first-aid kit?"

"I buried it," Malcolm explained. He was finding it a bit difficult to speak and walk at the same time, so he just stayed still. "I thought I should have both hands free, in case...in case you couldn't..." He blinked rapidly a few times, managed a lopsided smile. "I found your gloves."

Trip burst into laughter. "That's great!" He said, "Now all I need is an EVA suit t'go with 'em! C'mon," he went onto the first step, balancing Malcolm as the lieutenant followed him.

Malcolm had just managed to move his second foot onto the lowest step when Emma came outside again, obviously looking for them. "Siran!" She said, her amber face a mask of alarm, "Istvall's bones, let me help!"

"I'm fine," Malcolm said automatically, ignoring the glare from trip. Emma came to his other side and put his right arm over her shoulder. Together she and Trip pulled him easily up the stairs.

"I am so sorry, Siran," Emma said when they were all standing dripping in the Castle's grand stone entranceway, "you have both been through so much and here we were: standing like fools in the rain." She shook her head. "I am in the presence of Heroes, and acting like an addle-pate with no manners!" She smiled, a strangely sad curving of her lips. "Please forgive me."

"Don't worry about it," Trip was happily wringing the water out of his shirt. He looked at Malcolm and grinned. "I've got everything I need."

"My Liege Lady had gone personally to prepare your chamber, Of-the-Sun," Emma said to Malcolm. She paused to undo her rain cape one-handed, the other still supporting Malcolm. She seemed content to stand like that all day. The cape came undone and fell to the floor with a wet smack. Malcolm noted enviously that except for her sleeves, her clothes were almost entirely dry. "The Herb Wife will be waiting for you, to tend to your wounds. And we will clean your armour."

Malcolm smiled at her, tried not to have it turn into a yawn. "You are very kind." He turned to Trip, who had given up on the shirt and was trying to undo the knot that looked to be tying it around his waist. "We need to contact our...other companions."

"There are others?" Emma blinked in surprise. She moved so that she could still support Malcolm while talking more easily to him. "But only Brennan has ever returned from the Hall of the Dead." She paused, looking a little embarrassed, "well, Brennan and his Sword Man, of course. But no others."

Malcolm coughed, mostly to buy himself some thinking time. Trip's eyes were just as wide as his were; this was all new to him as well.

"Well, sure!" Trip said suddenly, "our companions—back in the Hall of the Dead." He looked at Malcolm, who had begun nodding in encouragement. "They'll need to, uh, they'll need to know we're all right. From our journey, and all." He winced slightly at the lie, but Emma was looking at Malcolm and didn't see it.

"You have blessed us with your arrival, Siran," she said, voice and demeanour totally serious. "The Saint Returned seemed more than the Five should ever grant us, but now that they've sent his Sword Man as well..." She looked like she might be overcome for a moment, and Malcolm and Trip waited tensely, wondering what they should do. Malcolm knew he was in no position to comfort anybody—if Emma let go of him he'd probably drop straight to the floor.

But the woman held on to him, seemingly without effort. After a moment she was able to look back at them both and smile. "Forgive me," she said quietly, "but since the rain began, we were without hope." Then she grinned even more broadly, apparently gaining confidence as she spoke. "But you are with us now, and all will be well again. With you help we can destroy the Jabberwock, and finally end the rain."

Malcolm and Trip looked at each other. Neither of them said ' _Jabberwock_?' out loud, but they both were thinking it.

"Ah," Emma said, "Altheda comes. Help me with him, if you would, Saint Brennan. The room must be ready now."


	8. Interlude

Trip stood by the window in the same chamber he'd first woken up in. Now he knew it had belonged to Aethelstan, who had died. He was watching as the Herb Wife finished smearing some kind of green salve over the bridge of Malcolm's nose and under his eyes. Malcolm was wincing and grimacing at her touch, but Trip wasn't sure if it was because it hurt or because the salve felt unpleasant. He didn't remember much of the Herb Wife slathering the stuff on his own bruises or the gash on his forehead, but he didn't recall it being that bad; he figured Malcolm was probably just unhappy being fussed over. Sometimes Trip thought Malcolm might be happier to lose a limb than to have to put up with anyone doing anything about it. Malcolm was still in the silver EVA under suit, though it looked awful with his blood staining it down his chest. Apparently Altheda was sending one of her helpers—she called them handmaidens—to try and find him some clothes as well.

Trip was wearing a different set of Aethelstan's clothes, which Altheda had decided would be uncomfortably large for Malcolm. She had again insisted on giving the outfit to Trip, though he hadn't liked taking something so obviously precious. He had tried to refuse, but in the end it was clear it meant more to her for him to have them than not, so he had accepted the gift with gratitude. This time the pants were earth-brown, but the shirt was again white. At least this shirt just hung loosely, requiring none of the complicated knotting. They still hadn't found shoes or boots that would fit his human-shaped feet, but at least the pants had a deep pocket he could keep the UT in. He thought he'd have to kiss Hoshi when they finally got back to the ship—or at least make a new burner for her hotplate or something. He'd never been so grateful to have that machine.

Right now he had his arms crossed, and his shoulder was leaning against the wall just in front of the large leaded window. With a small glance to his left he could see out into the courtyard and to the forest beyond. The rain was still pouring ceaselessly, nothing but brooding grey clouds from horizon to horizon. Apparently these people believed the rain signalled the end of the world, if he had understood Emma correctly back in the castle's entranceway. She hadn't mentioned it again as they had got Malcolm up the stairs to this room, and she had left shortly after he had helped the lieutenant get his EVA suit off, watching each of his movements with the concentration of a hawk. She had gathered up the pieces as soon as the last bit of bronze had clattered to the floor, and had told him she was taking it to the armourer's. He hadn't seen her since.

Altheda was with them, though, sitting in her customary chair as she anxiously watched. The Herb Wife had assured her of Malcolm's continued well-being several times, but Altheda still looked like she thought the lieutenant might disappear if she didn't keep her eyes on him. The reason for her concern, her almost-constant presence, made a lot more sense to Trip now; he hadn't even known her name before, let alone that she was the ruler of a kingdom. She seemed far too young to be burdened with such responsibility, but then he didn't really know how these people aged.

It hadn't occurred to him either, until Emma had mentioned the Jabberwock, that he and Malcolm might in any way be considered important. He had been impressed and gratified—hell, flattered—by the care and generosity they'd shown him, especially as he was so obviously not of their kind. But he hadn't thought anything much of it particularly. His folks would have done the same for a stranger, even an odd-looking one, and _Enterprise_ would have as well. If he'd thought about it, he might've seen something special in how someone had kept a constant vigil by his bedside, but in truth all he'd really thought about was Malcolm.

But this treatment apparently went beyond basic hospitality; they thought he was a saint. Saint Brennan, returned to them from the Hall of the Dead, fallen from the sky. With his Sword Man—whatever that meant—whom they thought was named for the very thing they feared forever lost.

This situation, he thought, would not make T'Pol very happy.

Trip smiled to himself, imagining the dressing-down he'd get from the

Sub-Commander if she knew: _First, you are an away mission for three days—three days—and you return pregnant. Now you've gone on a simple Dilithium drilling operation, and apparently you've been beatified? This does not bode well for the future of Humankind in space, Commander_!

Trip burst out laughing.

Altheda's head whirled to look at him, her eyes wide and shocked. The Herb

Wife turned more calmly, examining him with a curious smile.

"I'd like to know what you think is so bloody funny," Malcolm grumbled. He tried to turn towards Trip, but the Herb Wife held his face still. His color was better since Trip and Emma had gotten him to the bed. Still, Trip could tell by the slump of his shoulders how tired he was. He wished he could go and massage the strain out of those muscles, but he knew he'd just be getting in the Herb Wife's way.

"—Just how beautiful you look like that," Trip drawled. It got the expected scowl from the lieutenant and he laughed again. He wanted to tell him what he'd really laughed at, but doubted this would be a good time to return to the subject of their 'companions'.

Altheda turned to Trip, "He is beautiful," she said, her expression serious.

"Like you. He has sky-eyes," she added, "I have never seen the like."

"Thank you," Trip said, a bit uncomfortable with the praise. Malcolm muttered something similar, and he wondered if the lieutenant were blushing under all that salve, and the bandage the Herb Wife was now spreading over it.

"There," the old woman said with satisfaction. She ruffled Malcolm's hair affectionately and he managed a wry smile in return. "You'll be almost good as new when the sun comes up." Her smile died as she realized what she'd said. "I mean," she corrected quickly, "on the morrow."

"The sun still rises, Grusha," Altheda said, "we just cannot see it." She turned to the window. "But we will," she said with quiet certainty after a moment, "we will see it again."

Trip and Malcolm exchanged a look while the Herb Wife gathered up her things. Malcolm cleared his throat. "About that," he said carefully. His voice sounded weary, and strangely thick because of the damage to his nose. "What, exactly, would you have us do?"

Altheda smiled warmly at him. "Later, Siran—after you have rested and the

Soothsayer has come. There will be time for all later."

The Herb Wife made a gesture very like a deep curtsy to all of them, then turned and left the room. Malcolm gave a relieved sigh and collapsed backward onto the bedspread the instant she was gone. "Bloody hell," he muttered, "I feel like I've been slathered with eucalyptus dipped in lard."

Altheda stood and came towards them. "What is 'euc-alypt-us'?" She asked.

The way she stretched the sound out made it seem like a completely different word.

"Don't worry about it," Trip grinned, shaking his head. "Malcolm's just being an idiot."

Altheda whirled to face him. "Do not speak so of your Sword Man!" She snapped. "Never speak so of the one who will die for you!"

Trip blinked—he had actually angered her. "Forgive me, Milady," he said sincerely, "it was just a joke. He knows I don't mean anything by it—we've...been together for a long time."

Altheda paused, then bent her head in a small bow, "No, I should apologize," she said, "It was not my place." She looked at them both, though her smile didn't seem entirely real. "Forgive me for my outburst, Siran. I...I have many things on my mind."

"Of course," Malcolm said smoothly. He was sitting up again, though he looked like it took some effort. He cast a pointed glance to Trip. "We take no offence."

"None at all," Trip said quickly, and was relieved when Altheda's smile became genuine.

"I'll let you both rest, Siran," she bowed again, a deeper one this time, then headed towards the door.

Trip looked at Malcolm, sitting on the only bed in the room. Did Altheda really mean for them both just to share it? He opened his mouth to ask her, then snapped it shut as he watched her open one of the huge wooden doors and step out. If that was the way things worked around here, who was he to complain?

"Well," he said, stretching, "that was interestin'." He pulled off his shirt and let it drop to the floor, then paused, retrieved it and gently folded it across the back of the chair. He ran his tongue over his teeth, wishing he had his toothbrush. On the other hand, maybe that tea they were constantly serving had antiseptic qualities—his tongue didn't feel fuzzy yet. He went to join Malcolm on the bed. Not that he felt particularly tired though—he was full up with sleep after the shuttle crash, and it was still morning.

"So," he said, grinning as he bent to kiss his lover, "we're finally alone.

Know what I've been thinkin' about?"

Malcolm likely had no idea: he was fast asleep.

"Hell," Trip whispered, watching the gentle breathing, "sorry. Should'a thought."

He climbed carefully onto the bed, easing Malcolm down onto his back again.

Trip slowly moved him so he could pull one leg, and then the other up onto the bed as well. Malcolm slept on, oblivious.

Trip lay down on his side next to him, holding Malcolm's left hand. He leaned his head in and gently touched his lips to his hair.

"Sleep well, Siran," he said softly, then propped his head on his other hand, so he could watch over him.


	9. Soothsayer

Emma, Sword Woman to Liege Lady Altheda and now leader of all the Realm's

Siran, strode quickly into the stables. There were no lamps lit at this hour, despite the gloominess of the day, and the inside of the huge building was dark enough that she had to stand impatiently and wait for her eyes to adjust.

She hesitated, glancing down at the bronze helmet she carried in her hand. She had seen it make lights, for the Sword Man on the road. Perhaps if she wore it the helmet would do the same for her.

Instead she continued walking, finding Freja's stall by memory in the dark. She told herself that she just wanted to wait until she was well away from the castle before putting the helmet on, since she preferred to have her vision unhampered in any way while riding. The truth was she was loath to wear it. Saint Brennan's armour fit her surprisingly well, considering it had been made for a God, but she still was uncomfortable in it. It had not been made for mortals, and Emma could only imagine what trouble she had borrowed when she took it from the armoury. There was a hearthside tale of a magic cape that rendered its true wearer invisible, but turned the thieves who tried to take it into pigs or toads the instant they put it on. Emma had long since stopped believing such children's fancies, but she nonetheless felt uneasy; putting the helmet on now, sealing herself completely into the strange armour, was more of a risk than she currently wanted to take.

Time enough for the risk later, when she was in the mountains.

Emma heard Freja before she saw her, when the wolf snuffled gently in greeting. "Here I am, strong one," she crooned gently, though she knew the beast had scented her from the moment she entered the stables. Freja was a heavy grey, like the ever-present storm clouds. In the dim light Emma could just make out the light-on-dark form of her face. But the horse's eyes gleamed like green fire. Emma stood still as Freja stretched her muzzle over the gate, sniffing delicately at the Sira's head. Emma smiled and gently tapped one of her tusks. The she-wolf chuffed in response.

"Sorry to be taking you back into the rain, Freja," Emma said as she opened the stall gate, "but if we succeed, I promise you we will never know chill or wet again." She led the horse out, holding one of the tusks. The stable attendants had done a good job, she noted: Freja's fur was dry and clean; her tusks gleamed wickedly, almost as brightly as her eyes. They had each been sharpened to a deadly point.

"I don't recall y'ever wearing bronze, Sira," a voice said casually behind her, "though I can't say as it doesn't suit you. Brings out the color in your hair."

Emma turned quickly, her hand still on Freja's tusk. She saw the owner of the voice and instantly relaxed. "Will you come with me, Guilliam?"

Guilliam was carrying a small oil lamp. The light shining in his face made him look ghostlike as he smiled. He shook his had. "No," he said simply.

Emma nearly gaped at him, too astonished to even be angry. "You would let the rain continue?" Guilliam? Among the best, most trusted of her remaining Siran?

The thought was impossible—he loved the Realm more than his own life.

"No," he said again. He began to scratch his beard, "but I would not mock the Five either—and it seems you are doing just that."

Emma blinked in surprise, then her eyes narrowed. The Sira stepped forward, Freja following with a twitch of one massive paw. "You should speak faster,

Guilliam," she said, "Or I might think you are having sport of me."

"It's you who stole the God-armour, Sira," Guilliam said calmly. "It is you who is riding off to fight—and likely die—as if there were not two Heroes just sent to take the burden from us. I would say you are having sport of _them_ : thieving half the gift, refusing the other as if it meant nothing. Do you think the Five Heroes will be pleased at that?" He looked over his shoulder, taking in the continuing gouts of rain, then looked back at her. "It doesn't seem so."

"What?" Emma snorted with contempt, "you expect rainbows and sunlight while the Jabberwock still lives?" She shook her head. "Don't be a fool. And tell me," she continued, "—how can all of the Five still be in the Hall of the Dead, watching, when Saint Brennan and his Sword Man walk among us?" She gestured loosely at the rain behind him. "Perhaps the Gods don't notice so much as you think they do, old man—or perhaps they don't care what we do, so long as we amuse them."

"In the Histories," Guilliam said, "the Five always cared very much when a mortal tried to overstep their place." He glanced back at the rain again, then gave a wry smile that looked almost sinister in the flickering lamplight. "Do you truly think the rest of us have an endless appetite for misfortune?"

"Enough of this," Emma shook her head roughly. She began leading Freja again, purposely walking towards Guilliam, forcing him to stand aside. "We both know the Heroes are fickle, Siran. If you wish to contemplate the true meaning behind their deeds, I wish you joy of your madness. All I know is that it is still raining, and regardless of these men the Gods may have sent, Altheda must be the next to ride out—unless I go for her. Perhaps this magic armour will help me against the Jabberwock; perhaps it will not. Either way, I cannot stay and do nothing and watch my Lady die from the Beast or drown." She had only walked a few steps, but Guilliam stood firm in her path. She and Freja could move no farther out of the stables. Emma scowled at him, Freja growling softly above her shoulder. "Stand aside, Siran."

Guilliam just crossed his arms, his face passive. "When you fail, Sword

Woman, the Liege Lady will have to go anyway—with only the Siran you did not ask to join you to protect her. Then she will die, too."

Emma grit her teeth. "She will have the two from the Hall of the Dead to ride with her."

"Perhaps," Guilliam's expression implied that he doubted it, "but perhaps she will only have one. After all," He reached out and tapped her arm. "You are wearing their armour—one will not be able to fight. Perhaps the Gods will simply call them both back." He crossed his arms again. "Are you truly content to go this way, Emma? Abandoning your Liege, distrusting the Gods, stealing from a Saint?" The Siran shook his head sadly. "Surely with mortals like you, the Five will think this world is not a place worth saving."

"Enough!" Emma shouted. Behind her, Freja's large head lifted in surprise.

Guilliam continued to regard her blandly, as if she were the meanest prentice, not even worthy of his rancour. Surely that was why she was so very angry. "Say what you like, old man—I will not let my Lady die!"

"Fair enough," Guilliam nodded, "—so go back to the castle. Help the Five

Heroes to save her life."

* * *

"So," Trip rubbed the back of his neck, looking with ill-concealed misery at the parchment in front of him, "you're saying this crit-creature is causing all the rain?"

"Indeed," said the old man seated across from him.

Trip closed his eyes for a second, taking in a deep breath. Seated beside him, he heard Malcolm ask, "—but how can you be certain this Jabberwock is responsible? I mean, if something like this only happens every hundred years..."

"It is in the Histories," said the Soothsayer with finality. "Every hundred years, a new Jabberwock awakes. In their fear, the Five Hero Gods send a deluge, hoping to bury the very mountains in water and drown the Beast. They are willing to drown the whole Earth as well, to ensure the Jabberwock is dead. They will relent only if we can kill him ourselves."

Malcolm put his face in his hands, then moved them quickly so he wasn't putting any pressure on his still-sore nose and eyes. The slave the Herb Wife had applied that morning had worked wonders—Malcolm had woken up saying he was in almost no pain. Even so, the lieutenant's eyes were sill ringed with black. "That doesn't make any bloody sense."

"Malcolm," Trip said in quiet warning, knowing the name would sound like 'Of-the-Sun' to the Soothsayer. He kicked Malcolm's ankle, but his feet were still bare; the lieutenant didn't even look at him.

"We cannot expect to know the ways of the Gods," the old man said reasonably. He smiled fondly at them. "That is both the blessing and the curse of being mortal." He sighed, "I envy you—that you both knew their ways and will know them again."

"Wait," Malcolm said, raising a hand as he spoke, "if mortals can kill this thing, why can't the Heroes? Why do you have to do it?"

The Soothsayer just shook his head sadly. He took the parchment back from Trip, looking at the fearsome drawing while he absently traced the Jabberwock's sinuous form. In the picture, the creature was a green so deep it was almost black, with nastily glowing orange eyes. Each of it's seemingly thousands of fangs looked to be the size of a person's arm. Something hideous and phosphorescent leaked from its jaws. "Alas," he said, "I am no longer certain we Mortals _can_ kill it." I was not born when the Jabberwock last came, but my mother oft told me that most all the Realm's Siran and nearly the entire Liege Line had been lost before the final group was sent to the mountains. Even they did not return." He sighed again, heavily, "I was already a young man before we had a Liege again—the Jabberwock had killed them all."

Trip stared at him. " _No one_ came back?"

The Soothsayer shook his head again. "None."

Malcolm glanced at the picture, then back at the Soothsayer. "Then how did you know the Jabberwock was dead?"

The old man just looked at him. "Because we received no more rain."

Trip cleared his throat before Malcolm could speak. "All right," he said carefully, "You think this time it'll be even worse—like nobody will kill the Beast at all?"

"Indeed," the Soothsayer said. "We have already lost our Liege Lord, his Sword Woman and four of the best Siran in the mountains. All we have left of that Line is Altheda. She will go next, of course, and when she is gone the Realm will be Liege-less again. After that..." His expression was eloquent with despair. "After that, we can do nothing but wait for the rains to claim the world."

"So," Malcolm said, ignoring the look he got from Trip, "you want us to kill this Jabberwock for you?"

The old man moved his head in what they both knew now to be a nod. He smiled broadly at them, showing several spaces in his mouth where teeth were missing. "That is exactly what we want, Siran," he beamed. "The Heroes have sent you from the Hall of the Dead to kill this evil Beast for us. We will not lose our Liege Lady, and there shall be no more rain."

If anything, at Malcolm's expression the Soothsayer's smile seemed only to widen. "Of course you would not remember, Siran—a mortal mind could not well hold the memories of Gods." He stood, walking stooped but unerringly towards another shelf in the cramped, dusty library. The two men watched as the old man squinted at the spines of a row of books, finally pulling one out into his hands. He brought it back to the table clutched to his chest, as if it were a precious treasure. Given how old the binding appeared, perhaps it was.

The Soothsayer placed it gently on the stone surface, opening the cover carefully and licking his fingers as he slowly leafed through the pages. "Ah," he said at last, "here." He turned the book around, so that Malcolm and Trip could look at the picture.

Trip recognized it instantly from the Hall of Heroes—it was almost the same as the tapestry on the wall in the Castle's mausoleum. Now he realized with a start that the lighter-skinned figure with the sword was meant to be Saint Brennan. Him. Above the picture shone the sun, and the artist had made lavish use of the image of light. There were no shadows in the picture; only small grey shapes that probably represented evaporating rain.

The battle was obviously taking place in the mountains, since the artist had painstakingly worked at depicting the jagged edges of the rocks. Malcolm looked a little closer and blinked: it looked like the earth beneath the feet of the combatants was covered with thousands of humanoid skeletons. It looked like a holocaust. Like a rough, medieval painting of the results of nuclear war.

Nuclear. They had both been so stupid.

Slowly, Malcolm began to smile.

"You see!" The Soothsayer said happily, smiling as well. He pointed to the sun shape in the picture, then the figure fighting the monster. "The Sun, Saint Brennan's Sword Man, helping and protecting him as the Saint kills the Jabberwock. As it has been written in the Histories."

There were indeed symbols meticulously painted on the parchment next to the picture, but neither Malcolm nor Trip could understand their meaning. The

Soothsayer's meaning, however, was plain.

"And then," Malcolm paused, his expression considering, "once the Jabberwock has been destroyed—we go back to the Hall of the Dead?"

"Indeed," the old man moved his head in what was a vigorous nod. "You are both bound to return."

"We'll need our armour," Malcolm said immediately. Trip just stared at him.

"It's in everyone's best interest, Brennan," Malcolm explained. He tapped on the pile of bones in the picture. "They need us to save them from the Beast...that has killed thousands of them...in the deadly mountains."

Trip's eyes widened slightly, and Malcolm was sure he saw a faint tinge of blush near his ears. Trip turned back to the Soothsayer. "When do you want us to go?"


	10. Plan

"Trip," Malcolm said quietly, "I would gather that you know how to ride?"

"Not wolves," Trip replied, keeping his voice equally low. They were both standing inside the enormous stables behind the castle, looking up at a huge gray wolf with gleaming white tusks. They were waiting for Altheda and some of the Siran to return with provisions and their EVA suits—their 'armour', as all the locals insisted on calling them. Altheda had suggested they get to know Freja—who was actually Emma's—while they waited, since she would be one of the 'horses' they'd be riding. It was hard to believe that was the word the UT gave them, considering the giant wolves looked nothing remotely like horses at all.

Freja looked down at them impassively over the low gate across the entrance to her stall, blinking her luminescent green eyes. It was obvious she could have stepped over the gate whenever she wanted, or possibly even ripped it off its hinges with a single swipe of her pointed tusks. "It's interesting she doesn't try to get out of here," Malcolm mused. He was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, held tilted back as he looked up at Freja's face. He was wearing the silver undergarment of his EVA suit, which had apparently been washed sometime overnight. The bloodstains were gone at least, for which he was grateful.

"Guess she knows which side her bread is buttered on," Trip said. He was standing with his arms crossed as well, head tilted slightly towards Malcolm as he spoke, though his eyes never left Freja's. "S'pose she's wondering what we taste like?" Trip was still wearing the clothes Altheda had given him, though it meant his feet remained bare. Malcolm had a strong suspicion that Trip would wear the tunic and trousers under his EVA suit if he could. Considering where they were going, Malcolm thought he'd have to remind Trip that the under suit would be a much healthier choice, even if it were less comfortable.

"Ah gee," Trip said suddenly, turning his attention fully to Malcolm, "d'you suppose she takes English or Western style?"

Malcolm crooked an eyebrow. "Is that some kind of a joke?"

"Seriously," Trip said. He'd moved his gaze back to the Wolf-horse now, pulling on his lower lip as he thought. "It makes a huge difference, how much leg you hafta' use, versus rein." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm gonna check the saddles."

"If you really think it will help," Malcolm said dubiously. Usually he had the reputation of the overly meticulous one, but he supposed it was a way for Trip to deal with this situation; to try and assert some control over the chaos they'd both been flung into.

Malcolm sighed, shook his head slightly. He raised one hand until it was palm-up, just under Freja's large muzzle. The wolf could easily bite his arm off at the elbow if she so desired, but he supposed Altheda wouldn't have left them alone with her if that had been likely. "Hello there, girl," he said softly, "My name's Malcolm. They think that means 'Of-the-Sun' here, which is awfully embarrassing. Then again I suppose it could be worse—they think my partner's a saint."

Freja bent her head towards his hand. Malcolm could see her nostrils flaring as she got a good whiff of his scent. "That's it, Freja," he smiled, "get a good sniff there—that way you won't accidentally eat me later." He had to go up on his toes to touch her muzzle, but Freja stood quietly enough while he scratched what bit of fur he could reach. She whuffled thoughtfully, blowing air down his arm.

"I'm pretty sure it's Western," Trip said as he came back. He didn't look any less concerned, but he did move in closer to the wolf so he could reach up himself and scratch the thick fur on her chest. "I've never seen a saddle that big—I don't think you're really meant to use your legs at all."

Malcolm looked at him curiously. "What, they're just going to strap us in then?" He pulled his hand away from Freja, mimicking someone waving. His other hand cupped his mouth as if yelling: "Don't forget the knife, Brennan—or you won't be able to cut yourself free once you reach your destination...!"

"Cut it out," Trip snapped. "I'm serious!"

"Is there a problem, Siran?" It was Altheda, coming down the corridor towards them. Only her white headdress, glistening with rain, showed clearly in the semi-darkness inside the stables. Emma strode at her side, her amber face looking grimly determined. She was wearing a metal breastplate under her red rain cape, with thick gauntlets on her arms. "Is Freja not to your liking, Brennan?" The Liege Lady sounded hesitant. "We have other horses..."

"She looks wonderful," Trip turned to her and smiled as sincerely as he could. "It's just..." He glanced at Malcolm, but at the lieutenant's neutral expression he continued. "We..." He paused, took a deep breath. "The horses in the Hall of the Dead are different. We, ah—we don't remember how to ride these ones." He hoped what he just said wouldn't sound as crazy to Altheda as it did to him—he had no idea if their mythology included dead Heroes who rode something other than wolf-horses.

Altheda blinked, looked up at Freja worriedly. "Well," she said hesitantly,

"I am certain you will remember again, just as you have your language..."

Her expression said she was anything but certain.

"Anke and I will ride with you," Emma said then, as if it had already been decided. "We will take Freja and Dant."

Altheda paled visibly, her amber face going sickly-yellow for a long moment. Then her four-fingered hands clenched at her side. "You will not," she said, voice crackling with anger. She enunciated every word. "You, will, NOT."

Malcolm and Trip glanced at each other uneasily. Malcolm cleared his throat. "The Liege Lady is right, Emma," he said, "the mountains are too dangerous. For a mortal." He added. He looked at Trip for support but the Commander just shrugged almost imperceptibly, as unsure as he if he had used the right words.

Emma just stared at them both, and for a moment Trip was reminded uncomfortably of T'Pol. "You are both mortals now," she said, her implication obvious.

"We have magic armour," Trip said quickly, "it'll protect us."

"Anke and I can wear your armour, Siran," Emma said. We can spare you the fight."

"No," Malcolm said. He crossed his arms, "they won't work for you." He was pleased to see the Sira's eyes widen slightly at that, her face also go a little pale, as if that was something she had never considered.

Then Emma's expression hardened again, her posture shifting as she crossed her own arms in obvious challenge to Malcolm. "How do you know?"

"Wait," Trip said quickly, spreading both his arms and putting himself between Emma and Malcolm. He turned to Malcolm. "Malc—I mean, Malcolm: do you really wanna try ridin' these critters on our own?" His accent had thickened a little with his frustration. Malcolm wondered if the Norvendans would notice though the UT.

Malcolm tilted his head back so he could get another good look at Freja. She looked back at him with her huge mouth open, somehow reminiscent of a grin. He turned his attention back to Trip with a sigh. "No," he admitted reluctantly. He'd had riding lessons himself: 'Hunter' style lessons on proper English horses, none of which were larger than a Quarter Horse. He'd ridden an elephant once when he was in Thailand. He was certain neither of those experiences would have prepared him for riding a giant wolf.

"Good," Emma said, her arms still crossed, "it is settled then: Anke and I will go."

"No!" Malcolm and Altheda shouted at once.

Malcolm took a deep breath. "Brennan," he said, "could I talk to you for a minute?" He glanced pointedly at their hosts. Altheda looked both stricken and furious; Emma dangerously resolute.

"Of course, Siran," Altheda said solicitously, though her eyes still blazed each time she glanced at her Sword Woman. She turned imperiously and strode off, pointedly not looking back to see if Emma was following.

Emma exhaled noisily. She cast a poisonous glare in Malcolm's direction,

Then followed in Altheda's wake like a mother wolf guarding her cub.

Trip watched them leave with a quiet smile on his face. When they were out of earshot he snickered.

Malcolm looked at him sharply. "You find something amusing?"

"Yep," Trip said. "I was just thinking how much Emma reminds me of you."

"Spare me," Malcolm groaned. He covered his eyes with one hand as he shook his head. "Please tell me I'm not nearly that stubborn."

Trip snickered again. "I could," he said, "—but I'd be lyin'."

Malcolm dropped his hand from his eyes. He leaned back against Freja's stall, sighing in annoyance. "We can't have them come with us, Trip," he said. "Without EVA suits they'll die from radiation poisoning as soon as we get into the mountains."

Trip nodded. "I know." They had both figured it out the evening before in the library: the picture with the thousands of skeletons among the mountain peaks hadn't been metaphor, but real. The mountains themselves were the 'Jabberwock'—lethal to anyone unprotected who crossed into them. The reason why none of the Siran had ever come back. "So, we won't let them take us that far—we'll just have 'em take us to the shuttle, fix up the transmitter to contact _Enterprise_ , then ditch 'em in the foothills. Go the rest of the way alone."

Malcolm let his head fall back, looking up at Trip. The commander's face was nearly lost in shadow. "I doubt Altheda's Sword Woman will be so easily persuaded."

"Probably not," Trip agreed. He glanced quickly to his right, looking down the dim corridor. Altheda and Emma were still too far away to hear them. He leaned in closer, speaking right next to Malcolm's ear. "You've still got your phase pistol, right?"

"I buried it with the first-aid kid," Malcolm said quietly. He hadn't brought it to the castle like he had the UT, not wanting it to raise anyone's interest.

"You left a phase pistol behind?" Trip sounded genuinely surprised. "You must've been in worse shape than I thought."

Malcolm ignored the jibe. "Considering this is a very much a pre-industrial civilization, Commander," Malcolm said caustically, "I didn't think a phase-pistol would fit well into the local ambiance."

Trip chuckled. He was leaning in so close now that his breath felt like a warm feather against Malcolm's ear. "I'm disappointed in you, Lieutenant," he said, working to make his accent sound as clipped and British as Malcolm's, "what if you'd found me in dire need of rescue?"

Malcolm just smiled, turning his head so he was practically nuzzled up against Trip's neck. The commander's skin smelled clean and warm. "Well," he said, pretending to consider, "without your sorry arse as hindrance, I suppose it would have been that much easier to get back to _Enterprise_..."

"Nice try," Trip said. Malcolm could hear the smile in his voice. Trip leaned in just a little more and Malcolm felt the warm wetness of a tongue circling his ear, then a gentle nip of teeth. He hissed in a breath, then growled softly as he heard Trip chuckle.

"I know damn well what you woulda' done, Lieutenant." Trip said. He kissed, then bit gently at the skin just under Malcolm's ear. Trip's other hand glided up the smooth material covering Malcolm's chest, ending by cupping the back of his head. "You woulda' scoped out how the locals were mistreating your darlin' engineer..." Another little nip at Malcolm's jaw, "...and then you would have gone right back to your hide-out in the forest and grabbed the phase-pistol, all prepared to come in guns-a-blazin'-"

"Indeed," Malcolm murmured. He waited until Trip brushed his lips over his own, then quickly threaded his fingers through Trip's hair and pulled his head in tight, kissing him ferociously. He didn't let up until both men were panting.

"So," he said almost conversationally, when he had finally let Trip pull back, "since I do have access to a phase-pistol, I gather you're proposing we stun two of our hosts?"

It took a moment before Trip could speak; Malcolm waited patiently, smiling into the semi-darkness. "Only if we don't have another choice," the commander said soberly. He put his hand on Malcolm's shoulder, right at the bend of his neck. Malcolm could feel his thumb gently rubbing back and forth. "I'm not gonna let 'em die for some stupid myth. Not if we can stop it."

"And you really think they'll believe us if just come back and say we killed the creature?"

Malcolm saw the shadow-on-shadow move of Trip as he shrugged. "Why not? We can tell 'em that we killed every single Jabberwock that ever was—give them no reason to ever go into the mountains again. At least not until they know about radiation, hopefully."

Malcolm frowned, though he doubted Trip could see it. "What if it doesn't stop raining?"

Trip let out a long breath of air through his lips. "Well...It _has_ to eventually, right? We'll just say..." He snapped his fingers. "—We can tell them that the rest of the Heroes are waiting for us to get back to the Hall of the Dead, to make sure the Jabberwock really is killed and all." Malcolm could hear an edge of excitement in Trip's voice, as the commander thought out his idea. "That'll give us an excuse to leave again, since then they'll be expecting it. We'll be able to wait for _Enterprise_ at the crash site or in the foothills or something. I'm sure me an' T'Pol could rig something to disrupt the clouds if we have to—get the rain to stop."

"I don't know," Malcolm said, "I doubt T'Pol will be willing to help us disrupt the natural weather cycle of a large geographical area."

"The Cap'n can order her to, then," Trip said dismissively, "you can bet Archer'll be interested in changing the weather if it'll help these people."

Malcolm wasn't quite so certain, remembering Archer's decision not to tamper with the fate of the Valakians and Menk, but there was no point in arguing about it now. "Emma certainly won't appreciate being hit with a stun beam."

"Well, it'll be better than dyin'," Trip said. "Besides—we can tell her later it was more magic or something. They seem to believe in it."

"Yes," Malcolm agreed reluctantly, "that would probably work". He wasn't enjoying the idea of using these people's beliefs against them. It seemed dishonest, unfair, though he had to admit Trip was right. He could see no other way of keeping the Norvendans ignorant of who they were, or an easier way to get back to a location where they might have a better chance of contacting _Enterprise_. He also wasn't thrilled at the prospect of entire generations sacrificing themselves needlessly if he and Trip did nothing. He could only hope Trip would indeed be able to repair the transmitter when they returned to the remains of the shuttle.

He and Trip started towards Altheda and Emma. "We've decided," Trip said loudly so that they would hear him. The two women turned expectantly.

"We will be grateful for your help with the horses, Sira," Trip said, "and for Anke's as well." He smiled warmly at Emma. "—As long as you agree to let us go on alone once we reach the foothills."

"That's fine," Emma said, her expression closed, "you have my word we will not. I'll get the Sira." She spun on her heel and left instantly.

Trip couldn't help it: he turned to Altheda. "Is she always like this?"

Altheda graced him with a small smile. "No," she said apologetically. "She is...troubled, by the rain. We all are." Her smile widened as she spread her hands in a kind of shrug. "I am certain it goes the same with your Sword Man—they are never happy unless they can throw themselves on the beast's jaws for you."

"Oh, yeah," Trip agreed heartily, "you wouldn't believe how much it goes the same."


	11. Mountains

"Here," Trip heard Malcolm call from Dant's back, and Emma immediately pulled on Freja's reins. The wolf skid to a shuddering halt on the water-covered ground. Both riders were thrown forward, and all of Trip's nerves seemed to jump at the same time. He closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow down as he let go of Emma's waist. The last time he'd been on anything that fast he was entering atmosphere.

They were already at the crash site. By Trip's reckoning they had made it in under an hour, with the wolves running flat out. At this rate they'd be at the mountains in at most maybe another three hours. He'd been in ground cars that went slower than these wolves; being on their backs as they seemed to lope along at warp speed was both exhilarating and terrifying.

He stayed still as Emma turned in the saddle, throwing one leg forward over the very high saddle horn then letting herself slide down Freja's side and jump lightly to the ground. She landed with a splash, crouching to keep her balance; the water was almost up to her knees.

Trip did his best to copy her movements and slid to the ground a moment after. He slipped on the slick mud when he landed, but was able to keep his balance by steadying himself with one hand. The water went up to his elbow and he was very glad he'd put his EVA gloves on before they started. His feet tingled a little and his thighs were sore. He didn't relish the thought of how stiff his muscles would be when all the riding was done.

Anke and Malcolm slid off Dant one after the other as well. Trip noticed with some satisfaction that Malcolm's splashdown was only marginally more graceful than his had been. As soon as the riders' weight was off his back, Dant lifted all four paws out of the water one at a time, shaking them vigorously. Trip could almost hear the wolf's disgruntled sigh when he had to return each foot to the muddy water.

Anke patted Dant's leg affectionately, then turned to the other three. She was also wearing a red rain cape, and it floated behind her, semi-submerged where it met the water. "Where's your sky-ship, Siran?" She asked. She sounded genuinely curious, and Trip almost hated to have to point out the pathetic wreck and scraps of submerged metal that had once been Shuttle Pod One.

"The sky-ship didn't survive the journey," Malcolm explained simply. Like Trip he was wearing his entire EVA suit except for the helmet, which had been carefully strapped to one of Dant's saddlebags, next to the recently-retrieved first-aid kit. Both items were soaking and glistened in the rain. Malcolm's dark hair was plastered flat to his head. He ran his gloved fingers through it, then shook his head and scattered raindrops. "We're just hoping there's enough of it left intact so that we can contact our companions."

"Back in the Hall of the Dead, yes?" Anke asked. At Malcolm's nod she added, "don't they already know what's happening with you?" She turned to Emma as if for conformation. "I thought the Heroes always knew everything."

"Well, they don't." Malcolm said succinctly. "We have to contact them so they'll know when we've killed the Jabberwock." Trip turned his head away from the two women so they wouldn't see him wincing. As far as he was concerned their explanations were getting thinner and thinner all the time. He just hoped they could be back on _Enterprise_ and getting rid of this rain before anyone decided that maybe they weren't Gods or Heroes after all.

"So where is this device?" Emma asked. Trip noticed she was watching everything with the same keen gaze she had used when he had been removing Malcolm's EVA suit the day before.

Trip sighed, scrubbing his hands though his hair to push away some of the wet. "There," he said, pointing at the shuttle's nose. It was also flooded in the still-rising water, but looked like it had survived the crash much better than the aft end. He hoped it meant he could get the transmitter working. It might also be nice to be under cover for a little while. "Malcolm?" He called to the lieutenant. Malcolm nodded and started wading towards the gaping hole in the shuttle, where the metal had ripped almost in half.

"Stay here," Malcolm said over his shoulder to the two Siran. Trip heard Anke sigh theatrically as she pulled her rain cape tighter around her shoulders, but Emma said nothing. She stood leaning against Freja's foreleg, her arms crossed as she silently watched them.

"We'd better make this quick, Commander," Malcolm murmured dryly to Trip when they were inside. "I doubt she'll wait very long."

"Won't be a problem," Trip said grimly. The water inside was still almost knee-height, flooding the helm nearly up to the pilot's chair. Once glance at the console told Trip he wouldn't be able to fix any of it unless he had the shuttle in dry-dock. "Unless you're fixin' to get electrocuted real quick I don't suggest tryin' to repair anything."

"That bad?" Malcolm asked.

"Yep."

"Bollocks."

"Well," Trip shrugged, "we still got the communicator—if the rain stops it'll probably start workin' again."

Malcolm just looked at him balefully, then turned and trudged out of the wrecked shuttle. Trip thought he heard him muttering something about 'bloody Shuttle _Titanic_ ,' but he wasn't certain. He took one last look around the drowning shuttle, feeling a mixture of frustration and regret, then followed Malcolm back out into the rain.

Malcolm was standing just outside, running his gloved hand along the torn section of metal. Trip stopped and looked curiously at where the lieutenant had focused his attention. "What does that look like to you?" Malcolm asked.

Trip considered, squinting a little as he concentrated. "Looks like corrosion," he said at last, "like acid scoring."

Malcolm nodded slowly. "That's what I was thinking," he said at length. He turned to Trip, "I think this is what hit us."

Trip's eyebrows raised. "Some kind of acid?"

"It's an uncommon payload," Malcolm agreed, "but not unheard of." He shrugged. "I'm wondering if we'll find that an abandoned missile silo is the actual source for the radiation."

"I don't know," Trip said, "something like that should have shown up on our preliminary scans."

"Indeed," Malcolm said. He still had his eyes on the apparent acid marks: it had burned at least halfway through the hull plating. "It's a good thing we were in atmosphere when it hit," he murmured.

"We'll have to warn _Enterprise_ before they send anyone to get us," Trip said, "whatever shot that...it looks like they were aiming at us specifically."

Malcolm nodded, his expression showing the same concern. Then he looked back towards the two women who were waiting for them. "We'd better get going."

"There's nothing left we can work with," Trip explained when he and Malcolm were once again near the two Siran. He smiled weakly at their miserable expressions. "We'll just have to hope the Gods are keeping a good eye on us."

"I'm sure they will be, Brennan," Anke said quickly, but the way she glanced nervously at the sky belied her apparent belief in her own words.

"Unless you are in need of rest, Siran," Emma said to both of them, "I suggest we get on our way, then—it will take the horses longer to get to the foothills in this rain." She waited a moment for Trip and Malcolm to respond, and when they didn't she patted Freja's leg. The wolf lifted it out of the water, and Emma stepped onto it, balancing herself easily while she grabbed the saddle horn and swung herself back into the saddle. Trip climbed onto Freja's raised leg next, steadying himself against the wolf's side while Emma leaned down and offered her arm. The commander took it gladly, swinging up behind her again.

* * *

Trip was becoming well and truly sick of rain.

An hour into their three-hour ride to the mountains he had finally given in and put on his helmet, though the constant pelting noise of the rain against it was near to maddening. It was better than the constant freezing itch of rain running down his face and back though; at this point he could feel it had pooled up to his ankles inside the suit. Now his feet were wet and cold, and the constant sloshing of the water as he moved was more than faintly disgusting. Maybe if he were really lucky Phlox would make him spend several hours in the decontamination unit when they got back to the ship. It didn't add to the experience that his faceplate kept fogging up each time he exhaled. He was almost looking forward to getting to the irradiated mountains, so that the suit could be sealed and the internal air circulation fans would hopefully solve the problem. He glanced to his left, where Malcolm was clinging grimly to Anke's waist as they both rode pale-yellow Dant. Malcolm hadn't put his helmet on yet; Trip wondered how much rainwater had collected around the lieutenant's legs.

He had long-since stopped trying to speak to Emma, either, simply because at the speed they were going conversation was impossible. It felt a little like being on the back of a gigantic motorcycle, except that a motorcycle would give a steadier ride and probably couldn't go this fast in this much water—not the ones with tires, anyway. At a guess Trip was thinking they were possibly going at 250 kilometres an hour, at least. He hadn't imagined that any animal could run that fast for so long, let alone one so large. Yet the wolves seemed tireless, loping effortlessly even through areas of the forest where the water came up to their knees. It was actually pretty damn amazing. If Trip hadn't been so sore, and restless, and anxious and bored, he figured he'd probably be having fun.

The rain continued unabated, but the ground itself was getting steadily dryer as they continued on towards higher ground. Trip forced himself to glance down every so often, though the scenery zipped by dizzily, and when he saw only rocks and muddy ground under the wolves' feet he patted Emma's shoulder to get her to stop. The Sword Woman pulled Freja's rein, more softly this time, and the wolf's dead run slowed to a canter, then a bone-jarring trot, and then she was walking, lifting each huge paw delicately off the earth in turn, blowing great gouts of steam out her open muzzle. Her tongue lolled and she was panting, but Trip thought she looked far more exhilarated than tired by the run.

"That is some horse," he said to Emma. He'd switched his suit to external broadcast so he knew she could hear him.

"The finest," was all the Sira answered. Even though his helmet Trip couldn't miss the pride in the woman's voice.

Emma dismounted a little more stiffly the second time, stumbling slightly when she hit the ground. Trip had to grit his teeth to keep from moaning as he swung his right leg around so he could slide out of the saddle. He dropped heavily to the ground, quietly thrilled when his legs didn't totally give out on him. He eased himself gratefully to the ground and sat cross-legged. The rainwater was streaming over the rocks and soil here, but at least there were no puddles. He sighed in relief and his faceplate fogged up again.

Malcolm slid off Dant with almost as much difficulty, then began a series of stretches, one hand resting against he wolf for balance. Trip watched idly, thinking he should probably be doing the same thing if he didn't want to be in more pain later. He kept watching and thinking that until Malcolm finished. Then the lieutenant began methodically un-strapping the last of the supplies from where they'd been tied behind Dant's saddle. Anke had already gotten down most of it, but hadn't touched the first-aid kit or Malcolm's helmet. Trip smiled to himself when he saw his partner push his soaking hair back from his face and finally put the helmet on.

"Are you all right, Brennan?" Emma asked. Her concern sounded genuine, but Trip started pulling himself to his feet right away, taking care not to look like he was in any kind of pain. The last thing he wanted to do was to give Emma any more ideas about trying to finish this crusade by herself. He was sure he and Malcolm were just plain lucky that Emma had actually stopped as it was, rather than just letting Freja run on into the mountains.

"I'm fine," he smiled at her, mimicking Malcolm at his staunchest. He noted with some chagrin that she had already taken all the provisions from Freja's back while he was sitting on his butt doing nothing. "Sorry," he said quickly.

Emma just gave him a puzzled glance, then picked up one of the larger oilcloth-wrapped backpacks and handed it to him. "You both should eat and rest before going on," she said.

Trip didn't think that was such a bad idea, personally, but one glance at

Malcolm had him shaking his head. "It's not so late," he said, "Malcolm and

I can make a lot of progress before nightfall." He did his best to smile reassuringly at her.

"You should not be so eager to go on to your deaths, Siran," Anke said quietly from where she was standing next to Dant. Her midnight-coloured eyes looked sad and afraid. Dant stretched his massive head out to Freja and began licking her muzzle.

"We're not at all eager to die, Sira," Malcolm said gently as he examined his own pack. "But we _are_ eager to kill this Jabberwock and end the rain. "I promise you," he said sincerely, "that we will both come back."

Anke's smile quavered a little, but she turned and went to another bundle, lifting out a long shape wrapped in oilcloth. She gave it to Malcolm with a slight incline of her head. "Your sword, Of-the-Sun. May it taste the beast's flesh."

"Thank you," Malcolm said gravely. He unwrapped the sword and efficiently began buckling the sword belt on over his EVA suit. Trip watched with more than a little envy: the lieutenant looked like he really knew how to use it.

"...And yours, Saint Brennan," Emma said. She handed another bundle to Trip. "May it pierce his black heart."

The words had the feel of ritual phrases, and Trip wondered how many other times they'd been spoken, and to whom. "Thank you," he said. He unwrapped his own sword and buckled it on, hoping he'd been watching Malcolm carefully enough not to embarrass himself.

"You should not be going alone," Emma said then. Trip was facing away from her and he closed his eyes as he inhaled. He'd been waiting for this. Dreading it.

"We'll be fine." Malcolm said smoothly, "We have our armour. It will protect us from the Jabberwock." He looked at her pointedly. "You don't."

Trip watched as he bent and picked up the first-aid kit and opened it, casually looking over the contents. Malcolm turned his body a little so Emma and Anke couldn't see what he slipped into a compartment of his EVA suit, then he snapped the case shut and kneeled so he could secure it to the side of his backpack.

"You gave us your word you wouldn't take us any further than this," Trip added, deciding that as the Saint he should probably be in on this conversation. He tried to make his voice as imperious as he could. "You're going back on your word as a Sword Woman?" He hoped that would matter to her. Though if Emma was really as much like Malcolm as he feared it probably wouldn't; not in comparison to protecting their lives.

"Of course not, Brennan," Emma said. She ducked her head in a slight bow.

"Forgive me."

"Don't worry about it," Trip said quickly. He let out a silent sigh of relief and his faceplate fogged up. He scowled.

"Ready to go, Brennan?" Malcolm asked.

"Absolutely." Trip answered. He trudged up a few feet until he was even with Malcolm, then turned around to face the two women. They were just looking at them both, there faces so sorrowful he couldn't help feeling he was abandoning them. "Stay here," he said, just to underline the order. "We should be back in two days—if not, go back without us, because it means we'll have returned to the Hall of the Dead. The rain will have stopped by then." He turned around again, moving a little ponderously because of the wet ground and the extra weight of the backpack and sword. Malcolm quirked an eyebrow silently at him; he gave a tiny shrug back.

"Luck to you, Siran," Anke called to them. She sounded like she fully expected never to see them again. It was enough to send a chill up Trip's spine.

"Thank you, Sira," Malcolm responded cordially, then he also turned and began following Trip.

Trip heard the _click_ as Malcolm switched his suit over to dual communication mode. He had already done the same.

"Bloody hell," Malcolm swore quietly, "I feel like I'm going to my own bloody funeral."

Trip smirked, but there wasn't very much humour in it. "I'm sure there's a joke about that, but I forgot what it was."

"Good." Malcolm said. "Don't forget to keep your eye on the atmospheric readings—I'd hate for you to not know when to seal your suit."

"Thanks for the image," Trip said, only half-joking. He shuddered. If he forgot he would be dead very quickly.

"You're welcome," Malcolm said dryly. "I'll wait 'til we're a bit higher up before I try to contact _Enterprise_. Hopefully the radiation won't affect the transmission."

"Or the Jabberwock won't get us," Trip added. Malcolm didn't bother to answer him.


	12. Histories

If he hadn't seen it covered in flesh just a day earlier, Malcolm might have thought he was looking at the skull of a dinosaur. The yellowed tusks still had the straps buckled to them, where the Norvendan attached the reins.

"Trip?" He asked quietly. He double-checked to make sure his EVA suit was completely sealed. The giger readings were off the scale.

"They're closed, Malc," Trip said. He sounded grim. "How long d'you figure they woulda' lived, when they got up this far?"

Malcolm shrugged uncomfortably under the weight of the pack. The empty eye sockets of the wolf-horse looked so forlorn, the rain running over them like tears. "A few hours, a day, at most. More if they hadn't stayed very long."

"...Which they would've," Trip finished for him, "lookin' for that damn monster." He sounded angry, though at what Malcolm had no idea—the universe in general, perhaps. "How many bodies d'you suppose are up here?"

Malcolm lifted himself from where he'd been kneeling, looking around. It was like standing on the rim of the Apocalypse. Everywhere, absolutely everywhere he looked, there were skeletons. "Thousands," he said simply. Every hundred years, the Soothsayer had said. Every hundred years a new Jabberwock awoke and the rains would come. "You realize," he said, "the kind of damage this represents to a civilization."

"Yeah," Trip said, his voice hushed, "like the plagues in Europe, killin' over half of the population."

"Or a nuclear war," Malcolm added.

"Or a nuclear war." Trip agreed. "It takes decades to recover from damage like that. Innovations, concepts get lost..."

"If they _can_ recover," Malcolm said.

"Not...not if they keep losing people like this."

"That's right," Malcolm said quietly. He shifted his pack on his shoulders.

"I'm going to try hailing _Enterprise_ again."

He tried several times, using his suit's communicator and then the portable one, each time hearing nothing in return but static. He swore as he closed the communicator and put it back into his EVA suit. This wasn't going well. At this rate he and Trip would have to turn back, just to make sure they were well out of the danger area before they ran out of breathable air. He stopped finally, sighing through his teeth with frustration. "It's no good," he said to Trip, "I'll have to go higher."

"Not without me, you don't!" Trip grabbed his arm, holding him fast when Malcolm tried to move. Behind his faceplate his blue eyes were bright with anger. "Don't you _dare_ Malcolm Reed!" He shouted, "don't you _dare_ go on without me!"

Malcolm blinked. "I wasn't," he said simply. He waited. Trip still didn't let go of his arm.

"Don't give me that bullcrap, Malcolm," Trip growled, "I _know_ you—you'll go on 'til you run outta air, going higher and higher 'til you contact _Enterprise_ or die tryin'!" He was scowling, handsome face contorted with fury. "D'you think I'm stupid? D'you think I'd just walk away and let you kill yourself?"

"Trip," Malcolm said carefully, "have you checked your suit's nitrogen levels?"

"Nothin's wrong with m'suit!" Trip snapped, but Malcolm was relieved to see him check anyway. "It's fine."

"Good," Malcolm said. "I'm not going to abandon you, Charles," he hoped his sincerity would carry well enough through their linked com systems. "I never intended to. I merely said I thought we needed to go higher up."

Trip paused. His gaze shifted sideways. "'I'," he said, "you said: 'I'll have to go higher.'"

"I see," Malcolm said, "I'm sorry I made you worried. I never meant to imply I would go on without you." He glanced pointedly at his wrist. Trip's hand still had a death-grip on it. "Could you please let go my arm?"

"Promise me," Trip said. The anger was gone but his voice was still fierce. "Promise me you're not going anywhere without me. Promise you're not gonna leave me behind."

Malcolm nodded. "Charles Tucker the Third," he said, "I, Malcolm Reed, do hereby promise I will go nowhere on this God-forsaken mountain without you; I promise I will never leave you behind."

"Well, good." Trip said, "That's okay, then." He let go of Malcolm's hand, turning away. But he didn't start walking again.

Malcolm let his hand drop to his side. He gently flexed his fingers to restore the circulation. "Are you all right?"

Trip shook his head. "No, I'm not," he said. His voice sounded strained.

"They died quickly, Trip," Malcolm said. "They wouldn't have been in pain for very long."

"You think that matters?" Trip asked. He blinked rapidly a few times, but

Malcolm couldn't tell if there was water under his eyes or just a reflection of the rain on his faceplate. "D'you really think that matters?"

Malcolm's lips quirked in a tiny smile. He wanted to kiss those tears away, real or imagined, but Trip was locked inside his EVA suit, untouchable. Malcolm settled for grasping his hand. "No," he said finally, "I don't."

"Good." Trip said. He gripped Malcolm's hand like it was a lifeline. They started climbing together.

* * *

"Come on," Emma said, "It's time."

Anke nodded, then tilted up the metal lid of her teacup so she could blow on the hot liquid without letting any of the rain get into it. She removed the lid quickly and tilted her head back as she drank. Her throat moved furiously as she swallowed. She finished gasping, grinning as she blew out gusts of steam. "Hot!" She said finally, and laughed.

Emma smiled despite herself, shaking her head. "Hurry up," she said, not unkindly. "You can leave that here—we'll be back soon enough to repack."

Anke looked at her cup a little glumly, then tucked it under the tarp they'd anchored between two trees so they could have a small fire. Emma had already folded most of the tarp back so the rain fell directly on the fire, dousing it. The rest of the tarp was held to the ground with stones. The Sira got to her feet, wiping her hands on the back of her trousers, then sighing as they came back just as wet. She pulled her rain cape more tightly around her shoulders. "I can't remember when it wasn't raining," she said.

"You will," was all Emma replied. "Come on," she said again, "they've only had a day's walk on us—we can catch them easily."

"They won't be happy, Emma," Anke said. She patted Dant's shoulder and he obediently raised his foreleg for her. "You gave them your word."

Emma shrugged, spreading her hands as she settled herself in the saddle.

Freja was taking in great breaths of air, already anticipating a good run.

"There are more important things than words."

She flicked Freja's left rein and the horse turned, breaking into a full run as she headed higher into the mountains. Anke and Dant followed immediately after.

* * *

"Please tell me it's working," Trip panted. He was standing bent over with his hands on his thighs, the rain dancing on the entire length of his back.

"You can't get them?" Malcolm asked. He was panting as well, but not as badly. He was sitting on the wet rocks, his back leaning just next to the entrance of a large cave. He wondered if it might make a good place to get out of the rain for a bit, if only to not have to listen to the constant _pinging_ of the water drops against his suit. There was a skull next to his right foot, uncomfortably human-shaped. He tried to ignore it as he pulled out the smaller communicator.

"Nope," Trip gasped after about a minute. He pulled himself upright with an effort, walking stiffly towards Malcolm. They had left their swords and packs at the side of the indent that passed for a trail, reasoning they could always get them again if they had to return. Malcolm fervently hoped they wouldn't, but they were very nearly at the point where they would have to, or risk dying of either asphyxiation or radiation poisoning.

Trip sat beside him, letting his head fall forward. "This," he said, "is really fuckin' awful."

Malcolm gestured at the rain-drenched skull. "It could be worse."

"Yeah," Trip agreed, "but I'm havin' trouble imaginin' it." His breathing was calming, at least. He watched silently as Malcolm tried to hail the _Enterprise_ for the hundredth time. Static. "Think the universe is laughin' at us again?"

"Probably," Malcolm sighed. He snapped the communicator shut and slipped it back into the suit's compartment.

Trip smirked mirthlessly. "Too bad we don't have any bourbon."

Malcolm didn't answer. He had noticed something—a colour, on the ground among the endless stretch of gray and mud and ivory bones and rain. He began pulling himself upright, using the stone behind him for leverage. "What's that?"

Trip looked up, squinting. "That's red," he said at length, "it looks like

Clothing."

Malcolm was already on his feet, walking towards it. He heard Trip come up beside him.

"Sweet Jesus," Trip said softly, when they had reached the body.

Malcolm could only nod. He crouched down, not touching the hair or face. She had been a Sira, given the red of her rain cape and the tattoo on her cheek. Her black eyes stared sightlessly up at the grey sky, dark as pools and full of rain. She was still wearing her sword.

"She must've come out with the first group," Trip said, "right before we crashed." He was staring down at her face. The cold of the water had preserved her beautifully over the few days. He glanced at a reading inside his helmet. "Giger count's unbelievable."

Malcolm nodded, though he knew Trip couldn't see his face. "I'm impressed she made it this far."

Trip touched his shoulder, making him look up. "Well, there's her wolf."

The wolf, a gentle gray color, was lying on its side, looking similar enough to the contours of the landscape that both men had assumed it was just another boulder. It's eyes were yellow, mouth open and pale tongue flat against the ground.

"Still got its saddle and everything," Trip said. He looked back to the Sword Woman's body. "She must've started walkin' when it collapsed."

Malcolm walked around the body, until he was even with the creature's back.

"Oh my God," he said.

Trip was there instantly. "What? What is it?"

Malcolm pointed to the body, lying on its side, one leg trapped beneath the wolf. "I think that's the Liege Lord. What's left of him."

Trip swallowed. He touched his chest self-consciously, as if he were still wearing the homespun tunic under his EVA suit. "I know him," he said quietly, "that's Aethelstan." He had seen that face—serene and strangely more lifelike—in the castle's Hall of Heroes. One of the statues among the hundreds. Next to the one of Altheda.

"Her brother, then," Malcolm said quietly.

"Yeah," Trip said, "Yeah, I guess so." He knelt by the body, looking at the pale amber skin, the staring black of the one visible eye. He paused. There was something wrong with the chest: something silvery, showing almost garishly against the duller-coloured breastplate...

Trip reached to touch it, paused. "Hey Malc," he said, "Can you hand me a stick or something?"

"A stick?" Malcolm looked around incredulously. He finally settled on the Sira's sword, finding himself apologizing to her body as he gently tugged it out of its sheath. It was a fine blade—it hadn't started rusting yet, though maybe things didn't actually rust on this planet.

He walked back to Trip. Passing the sword to him grip-first so the commander wouldn't accidentally cut his suit. "Here."

"Thanks." Trip took the sword carefully, then gently touched it to the body of Aethelstan, using the flat of the blade so he could turn him onto his back. Only half the body fell back. Below the chest the lower body stayed as it was. Aethelstan's open mouth began to fill with rain.

What had once been Aethelstan's chest was...nothing. Nothing edged with a kind of silver. Like part of him had been melted, leaving only mercury behind.

"That's acid," Malcolm said. He thought of their shuttle; how much easier it would be for the acid to eat through crude metal, organic matter like flesh. He crouched down next to Trip to look more closely, and saw then that the Wolf's saddle was also burned through; in a much smaller area, as if it had just been hit by droplets. They had probably eaten their way right through the poor creature.

Malcolm stood, mentally calculating the trajectory, the force it would take to throw liquid that distance, taking into account the rain...

He turned around and was looking directly into the cave.

"Trip," he said quietly, "Trip, I think we need to get out of here."

Trip got up and turned just as slowly, looking into the cave. "No," he whispered, barely breathing, "no fuckin' _way_."

There was a noise, coming from the sky to the east: Inorganic, sudden and very, very loud.

"The shuttle," Malcolm said.

Trip's blue eyes went wide. "Oh, shit."

The ground rumbled as the shuttle passed, the vibrations spreading thorough the rocks and the loose earth like the sound at the end of the world. Both their helmets crackled with static. "Commander Tucker? Lieutenant Reed? Can you hear me?" It was Mayweather's voice. He sounded worried. They strained their eyes looking upward, but he was above the cloud line. They couldn't see the shuttle yet.

There was a new, different noise as the Jabberwock began crawling out of its cave.


	13. Jabberwock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >

  
Author's notes: >  


* * *

Malcolm deftly unsealed the separate compartment of his EVA suit, fingers closing around the phase pistol. He moved so that he was in front of Trip.

"Get out of here," he ordered. "Try to contact Travis. I'll hold it off."

The Jabberwock: enormous, deep, oily black, apparently eyeless, undulated out of its cave. It moved like a snake, slithering over the wet rock. Two gaping orifices on either side of a larger, perpetually open hole seemed to open and constrict convulsively, as if drinking the air.

Or _tasting_ it, Trip thought. He shuddered slightly, then froze, terrified the creature had noticed them.

The Jabberwock reared up suddenly, rings of its flesh pooling downwards to support it against the ground. It swung back and forth, almost plant like, the orifices frantically snapped open and shut. Searching for something.

"Oh God," Trip breathed, "It wants the shuttle."

Malcolm said something too softly for him to hear, then he fired the pistol. It was set to kill. Trip could tell that by the color of the beam, they way it burned instead of dispersing as it touched the alien's flesh.

The blast was totally silent under the roaring of the shuttle as it passed overhead. The creature started visibly at the beam's touch, muscles contracting above and below where Malcolm had hit.

Mayweather's voice, worried for the two of them, repeated over the com in his helmet. "Commander Tucker? Lieutenant Reed? This—"

"Abort!" Trip shouted back to him, hoping to hell Mayweather could hear him, that the kid would obey, "increase altitude, Travis! Get away!"

"...is Mayweather in Shuttle Pod Two. Guys, are you down there? Please respond—"

The creature's head swung around again, downwards this time, aiming at Malcolm. The lieutenant was still firing. The pistol beam was burning deep into the Jabberwock. The flesh around it fluttered crazily, but the creature didn't fall.

Trip watched in a kind of paralyzed fascination as muscle contractions, like reverse peristalsis, started somewhere around the Jabberwock's mid-section, growing smaller and faster as they rose up to the head.

He threw himself on top of Malcolm, moving before conscious thought. He could hear rain sizzling as the gout of silvery acid flew over his head.

The orifices opened and closed again, as if tasting for a kill, then the creature's head swung down until it was just skimming over the stone. It started undulating towards them.

Trip scrambled to his feet, clumsy in the EVA suit, slipping on the wet rocks. He was only thinking about distracting the creature, getting the Jabberwock away from Malcolm so the lieutenant could keep shooting it; keeping it away from Mayweather so the shuttle could land. He briefly wondered how much air he had left in his suit, then dismissed it as the least of his concerns.

He looked right and left wildly, trying to choose which direction to run. The giant, tar-coloured head rose up and came towards him.

Malcolm shot at it again, from his prone position on the ground. The shot went cleanly into the creature's quivering face. The Jabberwock reared again, thrusting its head into the air, away from the phase pistol beam.

The shuttle, finally, was visible as it came in from the East, descending towards them. The Jabberwock swung towards it immediately.

"No!" Trip picked up a rock and threw it. It missed, ricocheting off the rock beside the creature's swaying length. The muscle contractions had started again, traveling up the creature's body. Trip could hear Mayweather's voice over the com, his reaction as he saw the Jabberwock. He didn't know if the ensign would be able to move the shuttle in time. If the acid hit it would go right in through the canopy...

Freja the wolf charged into the Jabberwock, running so fast her grey form was barely more than a blur. Trip could feel the rush of air as she went past him.

The wolf tilted her head, lifting her muzzle slightly as she ran. Just as the creature was spitting its acid she impaled it on both her tusks, smashing the Jabberwock into the stone right beside the mouth of its cave. The acid flew wide as the creature convulsed in pain, missing the shuttle by less than half a meter.

Trip heard the dog-like wail of pain as Freja's tusks snapped. Emma was not on her horse's back; he didn't know where she was.

Dant, carrying Anke, came up from their left. Anke was standing in her saddle, sword-arm swinging as she prepared her strike. She slashed at the Jabberwock as Dant ran past. The force of the blow nearly knocked her from the saddle. Trip heard her scream.

Malcolm fired again and again, aiming at the sword wound, at the creature's black-hole face. It seemed to flinch bodily with every hit, but it wouldn't fall.

Freja pushed at the Jabberwock with one massive paw, finally wrenching her tusks free. The tips hand snapped off both of them, and the stumps were bleeding. Freja backed away, whining, her tail curving between her legs. The creature shuddered around the holes the wolf's teeth had left behind. Malcolm switched his aim to the large new wounds.

Dant leaped up on his hind legs as he turned, coming around for another pass. This time Anke threw her sword. It hit, but slid off the oily hide. Dant twisted his great body again, snapping his jaws shut around the Jabberwock, shaking his head furiously. The creature shook in his mouth, writhing in obvious agony.

Trip saw Anke trying to hold on as her horse leapt and struggled with his prey. He saw her hands slip, the Sira tumble from her wolf's back.

Malcolm was getting back to his feet, still firing. The Jabberwock thrashed, silver oozing from its mouth. Trip started to run towards Anke, to help.

Emma stopped him, grabbing his arm.

"Hello, Brennan," she said. She was grinning, hair soaked, her dark eyes wild. Blood the orange of copper dripped from her nose, welling then being washed away by the rain. She was holding her right arm strangely; Trip wondered if she had fallen off of her wolf; if it was because of the radiation. "You see how the rain stops."

"Sure," he said. He swallowed. He glanced in Anke's direction but he couldn't see her anymore. "Emma," he said, "I gotta go help—"

"Together, Siran," Emma smiled. "We go together." She raised her sword in her good hand, running towards the Jabberwock. Trip didn't watch to see if she succeeded or not, he couldn't bear it.

Nearby, Freja was tottering, panting and giving small whines of pain. Bloody saliva was frothing from her mouth as she breathed. The giant wolf tried to sit on her haunches, but keeled over, hitting heavily on the ground.

The Jabberwock was still thrashing in Dant's jaws, steadily weakening. Dant was making dog-screams of pain. Acid ran out of the creature's mouth, mixing with the rain, trailing slowly down its sides to touch the wolf's skin.

Trip was almost beside Dant now. He could go no further because of sprays of acid from the dying Jabberwock. He could hear it sizzling as it landed on the rocks nearby. Beyond the wolf's struggles he could see Anke, lying awkwardly among a group of skeletons.

He had to jump back as Dant suddenly crashed forward just in front of him, sprays of acid coming from the Jabberwock as it smacked into the ground. Half of Dant's jaws had been eaten through by the acid; blood pooled from what was left of his nose, turning light copper from the rain.

Trip ran past Dant to Anke, falling to his knees beside the Sira. She was dead as well. Her eyes were open and staring at the earth. Trip reached out and shut them for her, noting absently that his hands were shaking.

It was strangely quiet. Trip realized then that he couldn't hear Mayweather.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard anything from him. The Jabberwock was still pulsing, sickly twitches that were rapidly becoming devoid of life. It was easy enough to step around it.

He found Malcolm kneeling next to Emma, holding her as she trembled. She had managed to slice almost the whole way through the Jabberwock one-handed. The nearly-severed tail was pulsing faintly. "The rains are ending," he told her, and she smiled at him.

"Where is Freja?" She asked, "How is my horse?"

Trip and Malcolm exchanged glances—Malcolm was kneeling almost next to the gray wolf's body. "She fought well," Malcolm said.

"She is the finest," Emma smiled. She went limp, her eyes rolling back.

Malcolm lurched to his feet awkwardly, almost stumbling as he lifted the woman in his arms. He had left the phase pistol on the ground; Trip could see by which lights were flashing that it had run out of charge. Trip put his hands on Malcolm's shoulders to steady him, and they just looked at each other. Malcolm's eyes and face were blank, numb. Trip was sure he looked exactly the same.

"We've got to get her to the ship," Malcolm said, "She's still alive—Phlox can help her."

Trip just nodded. He had no idea if Phlox could save anyone from this amount of radiation poisoning, but it didn't matter. He helped Malcolm with her as they turned around, facing the shuttle now as it came in to land.

The shuttle's engines sounded horribly loud in the unnatural silence as it hovered and settled to the earth. Bones snapped and crushed under the vehicle's weight. The side door flew open, and Travis was there, wearing an EVA suit. His eyes were enormous.

"Guys?" He said. He looked at his commanding officers looking at him, the woman in Malcolm's arms and the wolves and the monster just behind. "Guys?" He asked again, "Are you okay?"


	14. Sira

Captain Jonathan Archer stood in his ship's Sickbay, waiting patiently while

Doctor Phlox finished examining Malcolm and Trip. Malcolm was inside the MRI, and Phlox had his attention fixed on the readout screen. Trip was sitting on one of the examination tables, wearing the standard-issue Starfleet blues. His head was hanging, shoulders slumped in despair.

"Hey," Archer said. Trip turned slowly to look at him. "Mayweather tells me it was quite a battle down there," Archer continued, "—that I should count myself lucky to have you all back safe and sound."

"Ah s'pose," Trip said listlessly. "Malc and I didn't do much." He rubbed the back of his head. "Is it still rainin'?"

"It seems to be clearing," Archer said. "T'Pol thinks the last of it will be gone by tomorrow."

"Well," Trip said, "that's somethin'."

Archer put his hand on Trip's shoulder. "You did what you could, Trip. You and Malcolm. It's not your fault that these people thought you were something you weren't. You can't blame yourself for what happened."

"We didn't believe 'em, Cap'n," Trip said. "They told us there was a monster up there and we didn't believe 'em. If it wasn't for the two Siran and their wolves that...that thing woulda' killed us both." He sighed, drawing up one leg so he could wrap his arms around it and lean his chin on his knee. "They shouldn't've even been there—there was no reason, no reason at all."

The MRI slid open and Malcolm rolled stiffly up into a sitting position. He saw Archer and gave the captain a brief nod. His expression was as grim as Trip's.

"Well," Phlox said brightly, "it seems neither of you is the worse for wear, considering your recent adventures." He shook his head wonderingly as he leaned in to peer at Malcolm's face. "Astonishing, absolutely astonishing. I couldn't have done a better job repairing your nose myself." He tilted his head to the side. "And all that just with a salve and bandage, you say? It must have marvelous regenerative properties." His expression became hopeful. "I don't suppose you were able to bring any back...?"

"Sorry," Malcolm smiled wanly at him before his expression became serious again. "How is Emma?"

At Malcolm's words Trip turned his head as well, suddenly animated. "Yeah, doc," he asked, "is she gonna be okay?"

Phlox' smile fluttered. "She will live, rest assured." His voice lacked his usual enthusiasm, and his small audience stayed quiet, waiting for the bad news. "Unfortunately, I don't believe she will ever regain her former level of health—at least, not with the treatment I am able to provide for her. It is possible," he added, his voice more optimistic, "that her own people may have remedies for radiation poisoning that are far superior."

It was possible. Someone had to have come back—to make the pictures and tapestries, after all—but it hardly seemed likely. Trip turned away again.

"Will she be disabled?" Malcolm asked. Trip knew what the lieutenant was thinking: if Emma wouldn't be able to ride or use a sword, maybe saving her life hadn't been such a mercy after all.

"Not in terms of her movement or strength, no." Phlox said, "but there's been a heavy toll taken on her immune system. She, ah, she probably won't have a very long life." The doctor put a finger to his chin in deliberation. "There's also been some cosmetic changes, actually," he said, as if as an afterthought, "her equivalent of melanocytes have been damaged."

"What does that mean?" Archer asked.

"Melanocytes produce melanin, which cause skin pigmentation." Phlox explained, "So her skin color will change," Phlox said, "as will her eyes and hair." He looked worriedly from Trip to Malcolm. "You two would know better than I how her people might deal with that."

"Maybe," Trip said, thinking. "What kind of change? Darker?"

"Lighter, actually," Phlox said with certainty. "She'll probably end up looking somewhat like you, Malcolm," the doctor smiled, "with that nice light-pink skin of yours. Of course," he considered, "it is even possible that she'll end up having yellowish hair, like the commander."

Malcolm and Trip looked at each other, blinking. Then they began to smile.

Archer stared at the two of them. Neither of them had genuinely smiled since they had carried the woman off the shuttle pod. Now they both looked relieved. "What?" He asked, bewildered, "What is it?"

"Well," Trip said after a moment, "you can't expect to look the same anymore, Right? Once you've been to the Hall of the Dead."

* * *

This time they came in from a different direction, avoiding the mountains entirely; it seemed far too likely that the creature they had encountered was one of many, considering the huge abundance of Dilithium. That's what the 'Jabberwocks' ate. Malcolm had figured it out: the creatures could 'hear' it—they used their mouth-like orifices to sense the particular resonance of the crystals. The acid secretions were for digging through the Dilithium-rich rock, and to dissolve it, so it could be eaten.

With more information on what to scan for, it became obvious that the hundreds of tunnels were not caused by erosion, but made by Jabberwocks. T'Pol reasoned that in less than a thousand years the mountains would start to collapse because of them, provided the Jabberwock population remained constant.

She had also suggested that it would be possible to mine some of the mineral using only the transporter, sparing a landing team. When they had left she was working with Trip's engineering team, recalibrating the transporter sensors. Archer had only agreed to the plan once she had assured him that taking some dilithium would not leave any Jabberwock to starve.

Crystals being used as a power source resonate at a slightly higher frequency, which was probably why the Jabberwocks were attracted to the shuttles. But they weren't normally dangerous, unless they felt threatened. And they didn't cause the rain.

"How is she, doc?" Trip asked. He was sitting behind Malcolm in the chair next to the side door. He had to look over his shoulder to see Phlox.

"Still sleeping soundly," Phlox said cheerfully. He ran his scanner over Emma's prone form one more time, checked the readout and smiled. "Recovering splendidly, as well. These are truly a remarkable people, Commander," Phlox said, as if Trip had somehow been responsible for creating them, "their regenerative abilities are astounding." He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "It almost makes me wish I had a crew of these Norvendans to deal with, instead of you Humans."

"I'm sorry to hear that, doctor," Malcolm said dryly. He was piloting, and his eyes didn't move from the canopy as he spoke. "In fact, I think I'm hurt. Hurt on behalf of all Humankind. You're saying we don't interest you anymore?"

"Not at all, Mr. Reed!" Phlox said heartily, and Trip wondered if he was either playing along with the joke or really thought he had to reassure the lieutenant. "No, no...I was just thinking it would be nice to deal with a crew who had the capacity to recover so well from major injuries."

"What?" Malcolm said, turning his head slightly and winking at Trip, "I'm not good enough for you anymore, either?"

"Please, don't worry, Mr. Reed," Phlox said. He was eyeing his scanner again. "You do manage to recover more than adequately," He glanced towards the helm, grinning. "...Despite your apparently infinite capacity to injure yourself."

"Bite your tongue," Malcolm groused.

"I beg your pardon?" Phlox asked.

"All right," Malcolm said, ignoring the doctor, "we'll be dropping below the cloud-cover soon—should I be evasive or should we just brazen it out?"

"Brazen," Trip said firmly. He stood and moved to the helm so that he was standing beside Malcolm, peering through the canopy. "How about there?" He asked, pointing.

"Right on the edge of the forest like that?" Malcolm asked, eying the small clearing dubiously, "that's more than 'brazen'—that might as well be putting up a bloody neon sign."

"D'you have a better suggestion?" Trip asked. "How far do you want her to have to walk?"

"I was thinking a little farther than that," Malcolm said. He didn't sound pleased. "I mean, they can have their wolves on us in five minutes if they want."

Trip just shrugged. "Let 'em." When Malcolm looked at him he grinned. "It's

Saint Brennan and his Sword Man returning a Sira from the Hall of the Dead, right? Why not have as many witnesses as possible?"

Malcolm just shook his head. "Prepare for landing," he said automatically.

Then he sighed. "T'Pol will have a fit."

"No she won't," Trip said with certainty, "she's a Vulcan."

* * *

Emma awoke lying on wet grass, staring up at a cloudy sky. It was nearing twilight, but she realized she could still see patches of blue.

Blue.

Her clothes felt clean and dry. Her armour—Aethelstan's armour—was polished and gleaming. Her sword, in an equally gleaming scabbard, was lying by her side.

She blinked slowly several times, trying to remember how she got to this place. She had a strange certainty that she should actually be in terrible pain.

"How are you feeling, Sira?" Someone asked her. She knew that voice. Emma blinked again, turning her head. Brennan was there, smiling at her, sitting cross-legged on the ground. He was wearing his armour, though without the helmet or gloves.

Emma sat up, realized she had been lying on her rain cape. "I'm fine," she said, surprised that she actually was. She looked at him, the beautiful blue of his eyes, like the sky above her, and remembered the last time she had seen him. "Freja is dead." It wasn't a question.

He nodded. "Yes she is," he said simply. "I'm sorry."

She looked down at her legs, her clean riding breeches. "She fought well," Emma said quietly. The words felt like ghosts. There was a hole inside her where the wolf used to be. She supposed she would grieve later, when it felt real. Now it was too new. _She is dead_ , Emma thought, but she couldn't fathom it; it meant nothing. "And Anke?" She asked, still looking at her legs, "and Dant?"

Brennan swallowed. "Anke and Dant too," he said. "Anke and Dant are gone."

"I see," she said. Two more holes, two more of so many. Later. Later she would grieve. She made herself turn to face him. "And your Sword Man?"

He smiled then, sadly, as if he had no real right to smile. "He's fine," Brennan said. "He's waiting for me."

Emma nodded. "It's not raining," she said, "did I die?"

The Saint paused. She saw him hesitate. "Yes," he said finally. "You fought well—you and Anke and the wolves saved our lives. You killed the Jabberwock." His voice was sorrowful. "But you were hurt badly and you died. Malcolm and I brought you and Anke and the wolves with us, back to the Hall of the Dead."

Emma looked around. She wasn't sure if her heart was hammering from excitement or fear. It all looked too familiar. Was that what death was? Just a continuation of all that had gone before? "Am I here, then? This is death?"

"No!" Brennan said immediately.

Emma looked at him. "Your eyes are blue," she said, just realizing. "Why are you still mortal?" Her eyes widened. "Did you die as well?"

"No, no," Brennan said quickly. "I didn't die, and this isn't...this isn't death. This is Norvenda—we brought you home."

Emma blinked again. "You mean," she said incredulously, "you mean I'm _alive_?"

Brennan's smile grew larger, grew real. "That's exactly what I mean, Emma, you are alive. You're alive again and you're home."

And then the Saint began to explain.

* * *

When they found her, she was crying: tears of relief and anguish and joy under a clear evening sky. Altheda had come out on Sote again. She was the first to slide off her horse and throw herself to her knees beside her Sword Woman and take Emma in her arms.

The rest were looking at her strangely, Guilliam and the others, but Emma didn't care. She was too full of sorrow to care, too full of blessings. She gently pushed Altheda back from her so she could tell her. She took her Liege Lady's hands.

"The Heroes were watching us, Milady," Emma said. She was shaking, still crying, but she didn't care. "They were watching us in the mountains, when the Beast came, when Anke and Dant and Freja gave their lives to pierce its black heart." She didn't remember that, how it had happened. Part of her hoped she never would. "Brennan told me," she had to pause—it was too big to say all at once. She took a deep breath.

"—Brennan told me that we saved his life, his life and that of his Sword Man. He told me they fought with all their strength, but the Jabberwock was too fierce, too powerful even for those who had been Gods. So the would have died if we hadn't been there to save them. And in return," she said, almost breathless, forcing herself to calm, "in return the Five Hero Gods have promised that even if another Jabberwock awakes, they will stop the rain before it can drown us." She repeated it, because it was so important, and Altheda's eyes were wide with disbelief, "Saint Brennan promised me: we will not have to go back to the mountains. The Gods will never drown us again."

Altheda just stared at her a very long moment, after that. Then her face lit up in a radiant smile. Just as quickly the smile shattered, and Emma found herself holding her Liege Lady as she wept. "We are blessed," Altheda was saying, over and over, her head tucked against Emma's neck, "we are blessed. They gave you back. The Five gave you back."

Of the rest of them, it was Guilliam who finally coughed, and then spoke. "Meaning no disrespect, Milady, but should we call you 'Saint' now? Or do you think you'd just prefer 'Sira'?"

Emma didn't answer him—'Milady' wasn't her title, and neither was 'Saint.'

She stroked Altheda's hair instead, thinking the Liege Lady would respond in her own good time.

"Sira Emma?" Guilliam asked again. Emma finally looked at him. She had never heard such deference in his voice before. It was puzzling.

"What is it?" She asked.

"Emma," Guilliam said, uncertainly, "we need to know—are you a Saint?"

"A _Saint_?" Emma burst out laughing. "Istvall's bones, Guilliam—I'm just returned from the mountains and now you mistake me for one of the Five?"

"Forgive me, Milady," Guilliam said. He sounded genuinely contrite. Emma was beginning to wonder if so much rain hadn't addled his mind. "It's just..." He shrugged helplessly, spreading his hands. "You look different. You look like Brennan."

Emma would have laughed again, but Altheda gently pushed herself out of the Sword Woman's arms. Her eyes were rimed with copper, her cheeks wet, but her smile could have rivaled the sun. "It's true, Emma," she said, "you are Returned. The Gods have changed you."

And then, finally, Emma got her first good look at the skin on her hands.

* * *

"God, I'm tired," Trip said, "I haven't done that much actin' since I was in high school."

"Don't worry, Brennan," Malcolm smiled at him, briefly glancing away from the helm, "I'm sure you were spot-on. You can actually be quite charming when you try hard enough."

"Thank you, Sunlight honey," Trip said caustically. He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Wake me when we get back to _Enterprise_."

"Very well, Commander," Phlox said. There was a pause. "Wake up."

Trip slit his eyes open, to see their ship looming before them. "Great," he said, "thanks."

"Wait," Malcolm said. He jostled Trip's arm, making him turn towards where he was pointing. "Look."

Trip squinted, concentrating on what he was seeing outside the canopy. "What am I lookin' at?"

"That's Norvenda down there," Malcolm said, indicating one of the smaller landmasses. It looked absolutely tiny from space, like there was no room down there for anything to actually happen. "And that," he smiled, "that's the sunset."

And it was: bright and amber and beautiful. Not a cloud in sight.


End file.
